{"id":1199,"date":"2019-02-14T12:45:53","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T17:45:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1199"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:14","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:14","slug":"veiled-at-midnight","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/veiled-at-midnight\/","title":{"rendered":"Veiled at Midnight"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Veiled at Midnight<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

by Christine Lindsay<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The British empire draws to an end\u2026
but the turmoil has only just begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Partition of India has sent millions to the roads, instigated riots as uncontrolled as wildfire\u2026and caught up in its wake Captain Cam Fraser, his sister Miriam, and the beautiful Indian Dassah. Cam has never been able to put Dassah from his mind, ever since they played together at the mission as children. But a British officer and the aide to the last viceroy cannot marry a poor Indian woman, can he?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a while, Dassah believes that Cam loves her. But as the impossibility of a future with him becomes clear, what choice does she have but to run? He may hold her heart\u2014but she cannot let him break it again. Miriam rails against the separation of the land of her birth, and as British forces prepare to leave India, she struggles. She finds purpose in teaching, in helping\u2026but is Lieutenant Colonel Jack Sunderland her soul mate or a distraction from what God has called her to do?<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

August 15, 1946<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Calcutta<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last arrow of sunlight shot back from the train\u2019s brass trim,\nblinding Cam Fraser. As he narrowed his eyes, he recognized a face at the edge\nof his vision. A train whistle shrieked, steam hissed. A young woman in a green\nsari mingled within a crowd of Indian passengers. In an instant, his legs felt\nencased in steel. Out of that teeming mass on the platform she stared back. Her\nskin the color of milky tea, her hair a thick braid of silk over one shoulder.\nThe fast sinking sun set her awash in a glow of apricot. Then crimson. She\u2019d\nbeen looking straight at him. Then in the descending dark she was gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHadassah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His sister, Miriam, gripped him by the elbow. \u201cHadassah? Cam, you said\nDassah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought I saw her.\u201d He shook his head, the pain nearly splitting it\nin two. He squinted to see into the crowd as the rapid Indian dusk fell. Ten\nlong years\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With her hand on his shoulder to steady herself, Miriam strained on her\ntiptoes to see over the throng. \u201cIt\u2019s been simply ages! Cam, are you sure? Where\u2019d\nyou see her?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At that moment, whistles blew, and conductors ushered passengers aboard\nthe night train bound for New Delhi. Miriam sent a pleading look over her\nshoulder. \u201cFind her, Cam, before the train leaves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t need any goading from his sister, and while the steward urged\nMiriam up the steps of their carriage, he dodged passengers along the side of\nthe train. Hundreds scrambled to their seats, more well-to-do Indians to first\nand second class. At least that injustice had been corrected somewhat since his\nchildhood. The plush elegance of first class was no longer assigned to the\nBritish alone. Still, hordes of poor mashed into the cattle-like carriages\ncalled fourth. But it wasn\u2019t fourth he\u2019d seen Dassah standing outside of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For as long as he could remember, scrawny little Dassah had tagged\nafter him when he visited the mission. He and Miriam had played with the muddle\nof orphans\u2014Hari, Ameera, Zakir, to name a few\u2014enjoying the usual sort of games.\nSoccer, rugby, marbles. But the last time he\u2019d seen Dassah she\u2019d been anything\nbut scrawny. Nor had she been a little girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reached the area where he thought she\u2019d stood. Sweat soaked the back\nof his shirt. Blast this muggy monsoon weather. His eyes blurred. And blast\nthis headache. No matter where he looked he couldn\u2019t pinpoint any of the\nslender young Indian women on or off the train as the girl he sought. Had he\nconjured up her image\u2014a mirage shimmering on the hot Indian rails? It wouldn\u2019t\nbe the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wound back through the crowds the way he\u2019d come. As he passed a\nclutch of railway officials, their talk in Hindi slowed his stride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026Muslim League calling for a holiday to mark their Direct Action Day\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShush your foolish fretting.\u201d The Conductor glanced around. \u201cNot until\ntomorrow.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Hindu Congress is worried.\u201d Another railroad man wiped sweat from\nhis face with the trailing end of his turban. \u201cI have heard rumors someone\nmight disturb the trains, such as the Muslims tried to do to Gandhi\u2019s special\ntrain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDisturb? Pah<\/em>! They tried to derail it, but that was months ago,\nand Gandhi is not on this train.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut many of his friends in the Hindu Congress are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The myriad of noise echoing under the station\u2019s massive glass and\nwrought iron roof absorbed the conversation. Cam\u2019s headache clasped his head in\na vice, but the authorities running these trains knew their jobs. Even if there\nwas anything to worry about, they didn\u2019t need him sticking his military nose\ninto things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he entered the carriage, Miriam glanced up. \u201cWell?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo time. I\u2019ll have to wait until we stop.\u201d The train started to glide\nforward as he sat on the seat opposite her. He reached for The<\/em> Times of India<\/em>, wishing he had an aspirin\u2014or six\u2014and\ndropped the paper to his lap. He\u2019d tried earlier to read the news, but the grinding\nwheels in his head wouldn\u2019t allow it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you think it was her?\u201d his sister asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t want to raise Miriam\u2019s hopes. \u201cI don\u2019t know for sure if the\ngirl I saw even got on this train.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the image of the woman\u2019s willowy shape in the crowd was stamped\nbehind his eyelids. Those arched brows, those eyes that were world-weary even\nwhen she was a child. So like Dassah, how she could speak without saying a\nword, how she trailed constantly after him and Zakir, only running away to hide\nwhen they fought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam smoothed her skirt over her knees. \u201cYou want to see her as much\nas I do. She\u2019s like family<\/a>. Like Ameera and Zakir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot quite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCam, surely you don\u2019t mean that because she\u2019s Indian.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know me better than that.\u201d He regretted the slight growl to his\ntone. Really, Miriam of all people should know better than to insult him with\nracial bigotry. \u201cI\u2019m saying that Dassah isn\u2019t quite family because she left the\nmission. Her and Tikah. Not a word after all this time. If they thought of us\nas family they\u2019d have contacted us. As for Zakir\u2026.\u201d He rattled his newspaper\nopen and pretended to read. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHonestly, Cam, you\u2019ve been like a mongoose bemoaning a stolen banana\nall day.\u201d She wrenched off her white, wrist-length gloves and fanned herself\nwith them. \u201cYou always get that way when we mention Zakir.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

His sigh would have depressed that mongoose she compared him to, but he\ncouldn\u2019t bear to talk about Zakir. Nor had he any intention of telling her how\nhe felt about Dassah. Then to add on what he\u2019d heard on the platform? Certainly\nnot. Though recent intelligence expected this crisis to blow over, the sooner\nhe got Miriam out of Calcutta the better. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She pulled open her handbag and offered him a packet of tablets. \u201cAnd\nthere\u2019s no need to hide your headache.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He smiled as he took the medicine, and she sent him a grin much like\ntheir mother\u2019s. Miriam was rarely nosey\u2014bless her\u2014and thankfully didn\u2019t ask\nfurther about his headache. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through the window, the darkening Indian countryside sped by under a\ngreen sky with a crescent moon rising. The rocking of the train lulled him, and\nhe shut his eyes. But Dassah\u2019s face emerged from his memory. That long black\nbraid over her shoulder. The scent of roses and lilies from the mission\u2019s\nbalcony, the perfume of Dassah herself as he faded to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A slight hitch in the rhythm of the train gliding along the rails woke\nCam. His eyes flew open. As though a change in gear\u2026a step out of cadence. The\ntrain met a curved section of track ahead, and he could see the line of lit\nwindows. Not a parallel line. A ripple passed through their carriage, setting\nthe crystal droplets on the lamps to tinkle, the hairs on his arms to stand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their car juddered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A thousand screeches\u2014were they human or metal?\u2014as the train jumped like\na frenzied horse. The momentum plucked him from his seat. Flung him across the\ncarriage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He picked out his sister\u2019s screams from so many others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment he was suspended in air, weightless, then landed on what\nhad been the wall, and then the ceiling as the train tumbled, turned, and\ntwisted. Lights went out as pain, poker hot, jabbed him in his side, his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A lifetime passed. Human cries mingled with tearing metal. Blackness.\nThe roar of his pulse pounded through his temples. Until the bucking of the\ntrain stopped. He counted his breaths, his heart about to burst through his\nchest. Where was he? How\u2026.?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How long did it take to sort out where he was? Minutes? Seconds? Was\nthis the wall he was lying on? Yes, the train lay on its side. His head had\nrammed against the lamp fixture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiriam,\u201d he croaked. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Deathly silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gradually, from all directions people began sobbing, screaming, calling\nout, but nothing from his sister. An acrid filament of smoke entered their\ncarriage and yanked him into new terror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiriam! Where are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m here.\u201d Her answer, thin and muffled, reached him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m coming. Are you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t like the frailty in her voice. This wasn\u2019t his gangbuster\nsister on her way to start a new teaching position. As he stood he found sure\nfooting on the panelling close to where the window used to be. Most of the main\nstructure of their carriage remained intact, though their bunks had sprung open\nin the upheaval, and broken furnishings created a minefield of debris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pain stabbed his ribs, and when he sought out the reason his hand came\naway warm and sticky. Same with his forehead when he touched it. He wondered\nwhat had become of his cap. As an officer he shouldn\u2019t be out of uniform. It\ntook a moment for the absurdity to sink in. He was wearing his civvies. On\nleave. The train had derailed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was standing though, with bruised ribs probably, and able to get to\nMiriam. Glass splintered under his shoes as he gingerly worked his way across\nto where he\u2019d heard her thread of a voice. \u201cCall out to me again, love.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m here, Cam. Are you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight as rain. I\u2019m coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlways the hero, just like Dad, though you\u2019ll never admit it.\u201d She\ngiggled, but it petered out too soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBig brother will always come to the rescue. Shout out now.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took more steps. It was hard to see in the dark. His knee connected\nwith something hard and sharp, and he felt his way around what must be an\nupended seat. \u201cHow are you, Miriam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing\u2019s changed, my darling sibling, since the last time you asked\nfive seconds ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBeen that long, has it?\u201d Keep her talking, keep her talking, that was\nthe ticket. \u201cAm I getting closer? Warm? Cool? Right off the map?\u201d While shoving\naside their strewn luggage, he spiked his tone with the same jolly nonsense as\nwhen they were kids playing at the mission. \u201cMiriam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hand grasped him around the ankle. \u201cStop shouting, and for goodness\nsake don\u2019t step on me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He dropped to see what pinned her down. Some broken fixture trapped her,\nhe surmised in the total blackness, and thrust the jumble off her. Once freed,\nhe quickly ran his hands over her arms and legs. No broken bones, uninjured,\nand he sent a swift thanks to\nthe Almighty, something he rarely did these days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s enough, Cam, I\u2019m fine. Really, I am.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re sure?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBruised. Cuts and scrapes\u2026all minor. Shaken.\u201d Her teeth chattered.\n\u201cYes\u2026shaken…and you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He helped her to stand, and together they hobbled to below the door that\nnow opened above them. It hurt like the blazes as he hauled himself upward\nthrough the opening, pushing the door up and out so that he emerged like a jack\nin the box. The pain in his side shot a haze past his vision, but he managed to\nreach below and lift her out. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They stood together surrounded by what appeared to be a battlefield. For a moment he was back in Burma in the\nwar, with bedlam all around him. People, like refugees, lay about, some crouched. Others staggered by in\nthe light of flickering flames from a series of small fires, started by flying\ncoals from the engine. Behind them, the carriages from first and second class\nlay on their sides. English people stumbled from the wreckage. Nearby, one man\nin a white linen suit and cricket club tie had lost several layers of skin on\nhis leg. Around him was scattered the usual paraphernalia his fellow British\npacked for the train: thermoses, picnic baskets, bedrolls, air inflated\npillows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not far from him, a woman in a pink frock and straw hat festooned with\nsilk roses cradled her arm, broken in a nasty-looking fracture. One of her\nshoes was missing. Many of the English had begun to assist one another, so too\nwere the Indians from First and Second.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But closer to the front behind the engine, carriages lay smashed across\nthe rails, nothing more than a pile of splintered wood and tangled steel. Twisted rails stuck out all over, while cars\nand coal tender straggled about the ballast stones. Indian passengers crept out from the broken\nmatchbox of a train, in shock, blackened with smoke and grease. He heard and\nunderstood various dialects from people speaking all at once\u2014Hindi, Punjabi,\nUrdu, and several others. Many sobbed, hunched over their wounds, while one\nIndian woman, seemingly uninjured, stood like a statue. Her sari fluttered in\nthe scorching night breeze as she gazed about her at nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Calls for help came from within, and a handful of Indian soldiers picked\ntheir way into the wreckage. The engine was still spouting steam. That boiler\ncould blow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStay here,\u201d he said to Miriam, \u201csafely away from the train.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m coming with you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo you\u2019re not.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She reached for him. \u201cCam, I felt blood all over your shirt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He raised a hand to his head, pushed back his hair sticky with blood,\nand took a swift glance\nat his side. The gouge was nasty, would need stitches most likely, but it\nwouldn\u2019t kill him. \u201cI\u2019ll be back soon. Help will arrive from that town over\nthere!\u201d he shouted back at her as he ran to join the soldiers who were sifting\nthrough debris at the front of the train. \u201cDo what you can for the injured\nhere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Railroad men raked out red hot coals from the engine\u2019s firebox, but\ncinders belched from the locomotive lying on its side. It wheezed as if it were\na huge black-and-gold striped animal brought down by a hunter\u2019s bullet. Cam shook off his fanciful thinking to climb\ninside the wreckage. Stewards\nand traveling soldiers were already at work putting out a series of small\nfires.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside fourth, Indian women tore the hems off their saris, and the men\ntore their scarves and shirts to staunch the bleeding of their fellow\npassengers. Cam threaded his way through, at times crawling, while able-bodied\nmen carried the wounded outside to the embankment. An Englishman of military\nbearing attempted to free a woman from a broken baggage rack as Cam reached\nthem. This man also wore civvies, but from his tie clip Cam recognized him as a\nBritish officer from a Punjab Regiment. A glance of understanding passed\nbetween them as they counted to three. Together they lifted the rack that\npinned the unconscious woman and thrust it aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you carry her outside?\u201d the officer asked. \u201cI can manage in here\nalone for a few minutes. It\u2019s that engine that worries me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a nod, Cam stooped to gain hold of the woman under her shoulders\nand knees, and lifted. His vision blurred as he carried her outside where a\nmakeshift triage had already sprung up. Some of the passengers appeared to be\ndoctors and nurses. He\u2019d seen enough war and human misery, enough for a\nlifetime, and perhaps it would be worse if the sight of suffering didn\u2019t kick\nhim in the gut like it did now. If he\u2019d become used to this, then something\ntruly would have died within him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the distance, ambulance bells clanged, adding to the other wretched sounds around them.\nFrom the nearest town came civil and railroad police, fire officials. He returned to the wreckage and for a long\ntime helped to lift the wounded from it. At last, hours later, the locomotive\nwas under control, all fear of an explosion causing a secondary disaster\nsubsided, but Cam\u2019s muscles cried out. The pain in his side had worsened so\nthat it was hard to breathe. Had he done more than bruise a rib? But his thirst\nwas worse, enough to drive a man mad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A local man came by with a bucket of water and a ladle, offering a drink\nto Cam. The water went down his throat like nectar, and it would do until he\ngot a proper drink\u2014or better still, a bottle. He turned to survey the\nderailment. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Among the crowd of injured, her green sari stood out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her long braid of dark hair caressed one shoulder as she sat\ncross-legged on the ground, a child in her lap, her arm around another. There\nshe was. Flesh and blood. A mirage did not bleed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those amber eyes of Dassah\u2019s in the scarce light of flickering fires\nwere wide with shock. As she adjusted the sari crossing her chest, the veil\neased back from her forehead so that he could see the extent of a gash above\none brow. Cam drew close and dropped to his knees before her. With a gulp she\ncradled the toddler she held that much closer, and the little one whimpered in\nher sleep. The other child\u2014a boy, he could see that now\u2014sidled closer to her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre they all right?\u201d His voice sounded alien to his own ears. \u201cAre\nyou?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shivered as if she were freezing in the hot night air and lowered\nher gaze. Anger, searing red as coals, coursed through him. Dassah had always\nbeen reserved, even as a baby. So had Zakir, for that matter. Surely their\nchildhood friendship deserved more than this show of Indian subservience? But\nthen he\u2019d thought that of Zakir as well. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Around them, the throng of people merged into one unintelligible,\nbuzzing mass. For once, the rest of the world could take care of itself. He\nlifted the boy and sat beside Dassah, holding the too-quiet child. In the face\nof the trauma around him, all he could think was, were these children hers? A\nblack cloud crossed his vision. If so, Dassah must be married, and the thought\nof a husband snuffed out a hope he hadn\u2019t known existed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why that should matter made no sense, when he was practically engaged\nhimself.
<\/p>\n\n\n