The Queen's Tiger

by Peter Watt

  ‘This might not be a good time for an Englishwoman to be alone in the markets,’ a familiar voice said behind her, and Alice turned to see the Khan. He was not dressed in his finery but wore a loose-fitting long shirt over a skirt-like cloth wrapped around his waist. He was accompanied by a bodyguard of four bearded men wearing turbans and armed with curved swords. The silk vendor bowed his head, obviously recognising the importance of the man speaking with the Englishwoman.

  ‘Prince, it is good to make your acquaintance again,’ Alice said, relieved to have his immediate protection. ‘It appears that the people here resent my presence.’

  ‘It is understandable when one knows of the hanging of a mutineer leader, Pandey, at the Barrackpore barracks,’ Khan said. ‘His stand against the Queen’s Empire made him a hero to the common people, and now he is a martyr to them. You are in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I would strongly suggest that you allow me to escort you safely from the markets. My palace is only a short distance from here, and I am sure you would like to see how the other half live.’ There was something facetious in his last words, and they were accompanied by the hint of a smile.

  Alice had to admit to herself that she was fascinated by the Indian prince, who was handsome, charming, very intelligent and had a wry sense of humour.

  The crowd made a pathway for the prince and his bodyguards as they escorted the Englishwoman away, closing behind them with shouts of anger. It seemed the prince had arrived just in the nick of time. Soon Alice was free of the stifling mob and on a wide avenue lined with shade trees. They walked for a distance until the pungent smell of the markets was behind them. Eventually they came to a whitewashed wall surrounding a magnificent building rising three storeys above the street.

  A great wooden gate ornately adorned with Arabic script swung open and the party of six entered a beautiful garden with manicured lawns and flowing stone fountains. Servants in loincloths tended the garden and well-dressed male and female servants greeted them at the top of the broad stone stairs leading into the palace.

  ‘So this is how the other half live,’ Alice said with a grin, feeling secure and comfortable in the company of the young man who wielded such power.

  ‘Perhaps you might enjoy a cool sherbet before you are escorted back to your husband,’ the Khan said politely. ‘I am sure that my wife would love to meet with the daughter of Kali.’

  Alice was fascinated with this introduction to the palace of one of the ruling elites of the Bengal region. From what she had learned from Scott, these princes owed their positions to their alliance with the East India Company.

  ‘I would be honoured to meet your wife,’ Alice said as the prince escorted her to a room with marble floors and sumptuous divans. Two servants hovered nearby and the Khan issued instructions. They disappeared and moments later a beautiful dark-eyed young woman wearing a long silken dress embroidered with pearls entered the room with a young boy Alice guessed to be around five years old. He was dressed in the rich traditional clothing of an adult, with a turban, like a miniature version of the Khan on the tiger hunt.

  ‘This is my wife, Sari, and my firstborn son, Ali,’ the Khan said. ‘Neither speaks English but I will be sending my son to England to be educated next year.’ The boy standing by his mother stared intently at Alice, and the prince noticed.

  ‘My son has never seen a beautiful Englishwoman with hair the colour of gold,’ he smiled. ‘I think he would like to touch your hair.’

  ‘If he wishes,’ Alice replied, and the Khan summoned his son forward. Very gently the boy reached up to touch the hair piled on Alice’s head. He looked into her eyes and smiled shyly, before running back to his mother, who smiled with the same shyness. The Khan spoke some more words and Alice could see a sudden look of interest in Sari’s dark eyes.

  ‘I told her how you single-handedly killed the tiger,’ he said. ‘My wife is impressed. You may be the daughter of Kali to my Hindu subjects, but I suspect that you are our Queen’s tiger to your own people. But now I should extend our hospitality.’

  As if on cue the two servants returned with silver trays upon which were crystal glasses filled with sherbet and ice. They were set down on a low polished teak table and soft cushions were brought for the Khan and Alice. Alice realised that the prince’s wife and son had disappeared from the room. She suspected it was not quite proper for her to be alone with the Indian prince, but to say so would only cause offence; besides, she was intrigued. She took a cushion opposite the Khan and accepted the glass he passed her. The thick, cold drink was delicious.

  ‘Why do the people resent us?’ Alice asked without the polite niceties of genteel conversation.

  The prince raised his eyebrows at her bluntness. ‘I am sure that Major Campbell has told you about the issue of the cartridge cases,’ he said, sipping his own drink. ‘But there is the underlying issue of being free from the yoke of the British or, in our case in Bengal, the East India Company.’

  ‘But my brother-in-law has informed me that you hold your position because of the East India Company’s administration of this region of India.’

  ‘Before you English came, my father and his father before him ruled an area ten times larger than I do now,’ the Khan said, and Alice noticed that he was frowning. ‘The Company cunningly took our lands for their own purposes and promised that they would protect my rule. But now they have disobedience in the ranks of the army and I fear this will become a full-scale rebellion by the people of India bent on throwing out all Europeans.’

  ‘If that eventuates, how would it affect your family?’ Alice asked.

  For a moment the Indian prince did not answer. ‘I would have to see which way the winds of war blew,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘My priority is the survival of my family and my regime. But I do know that it is very much in the Company’s interests to ensure my safety.’

  His answer sent a chill up Alice’s spine, and for the first time she had a sense that she and Peter ought to cut short their stay in India, despite Scott’s reassurances that the mutinous acts of the East India troops were being squashed. How could such a tiny number of Company soldiers and administrators guarantee control over a land of such huge geographic size and vast multitudes of people?

  ‘I have arranged to have my carriage take you back to Major Campbell’s residence,’ the Khan said, as if displeased with the conversation Alice had initiated. ‘It has been a pleasure having you under my roof for this very brief time. My servants have almost finished preparing the pelt of the tiger. I will have it sent around when it is ready.’ He rose, extending his hand to assist Alice from her cushion. She accepted and felt his firm grip linger even when she was on her feet.

  ‘You are a beautiful woman in any culture,’ he said softly. ‘Dr Campbell is a fortunate man to have you in his bed.’

  ‘And you are similarly fortunate to have such a beautiful wife and son,’ Alice stammered, embarrassed by his choice of words. She slipped her hand from his and bade him farewell.

  Alice was escorted to the carriage and delivered to her residence. She was met by Peter, who was standing in the gateway as she alighted from the coach. She could immediately see the dark expression on his face.

  ‘I was informed that you left for the markets without a bodyguard,’ he said by way of a greeting. ‘If I am not mistaken, that is the local prince’s coach.’

  ‘I chose to go to the markets alone as the trooper Scott assigned me did not keep his appointment. I have been before without mishap but, I must confess, the crowd in the markets was not very hospitable and I was fortunate the Khan happened to be in the area and could provide me with a safe escort home. He has proved to be a good and honourable man.’

  Peter frowned and without a word turned and strode back to the bungalow. Alice hurried after him.

  ‘Peter, what is wrong?’ she asked, and Peter suddenly stopped.

  ‘Do yo
u know how this looks to the people who live here?’ he said with a pained expression on his face. ‘Every time I go out on my medical rounds you seem to find entertainment in the company of my brother – and now that has extended to the local royalty. Do you know that the Khan has four wives?’

  ‘I did not know that,’ Alice answered. ‘I only met one of his wives, and her son.’

  ‘That is the low morality of these people,’ Peter said. ‘Bloody harems and forced marriages. Is that the type of person you would rather socialise with than your husband?’

  ‘That is not true, and nor is it fair,’ Alice exploded. ‘I love you, and I have no romantic interest in any other man. Surely you know that.’

  ‘All I know is that you get presents from a bloody native prince and my own brother takes to you as if you were more than his sister-in-law. All my childhood Scott was the favoured son and would make a point of taking anything that I valued. Now I think he wants you.’

  Alice was disturbed by Peter’s revelation of his insecurity. It had never occurred to her that this gentle and courageous man who lived to make other people’s lives better could doubt her love for him.

  ‘I think we should consider returning to England,’ Alice said.

  ‘Would that change anything?’ Peter retorted. ‘Or would you find comfort in the arms of another man there?’

  Shocked, Alice stumbled in tears to their room, leaving Peter standing alone.

  He cursed himself and shook his head. What was wrong with him? He walked slowly to the garden, grabbing a bottle of unopened Scotch whisky on the way. He did not need a glass. He would drink from the bottle.

  Peter sat down on a stone bench. It was mid-afternoon and the hot sunlight blazed down, filtered through the leaves of the shady trees. If only Samuel were here to talk with, Peter thought, and not off somewhere in the biblical lands of Mesopotamia fighting another war for the Queen. Alice’s brother was Peter’s closest friend. The soldier and the surgeon had shared so much on the battlefields of the Crimea only months before. No doubt Samuel would tell him that he was acting as an insanely jealous man and that he should put more trust in Alice.

  Peter opened the bottle and took a long swig. Meanwhile Alice lay on the big bed, sobbing tears of frustration for her husband’s lack of trust. She only wished that her brother Samuel could be here to talk sense into the man.

  *

  Captain Ian Steele watched as his men boarded one of the three steamers conveying troops up the river to engage the Persian army. He was pleased to see the look of confidence in their faces as they passed, and many gave him a nod of respect.

  Ian had attended the briefings at brigade HQ and knew that what lay ahead would take lives, but he reminded himself that this was the lot of professional soldiers. He was reassured to learn that the naval commander of their small fleet was a man with a considerable reputation in similar campaigns in Burma and China.

  A company of Highland infantry had boarded the steamer lying alongside their own, and a cheerful banter was exchanged between the English and Scottish troops. Ian could see that morale was high amongst his men.

  At ten o’clock in the morning the steamers pulled out of Mohammerah. The steamship the Comet led the flotilla, towing the slower Assyria, whilst the Planet brought up the rear. Each steamer also towed a gunboat armed with two twenty-four-pounder howitzers, artillery guns capable of firing at a high angle to drop explosive shells behind fortified constructions. Ian passed the order for the men of his company to prepare the tea that the British army marched on.

  ‘At least we don’t have to march to the next battle,’ Conan said beside Ian. ‘And this is not as bad as the bloody troopship that brought us to Persia. At least it is hard to get seasick on the river.’

  ‘Very true, Sergeant Curry,’ Ian said. ‘I’d consider transferring to the navy if all wars were fought on rivers. No marching through sleet and cold, or living in the open in drifts of snow, wondering if rations will be delivered to fill my empty stomach.’

  ‘But it is the seasickness,’ Conan said, knowing that his company commander had suffered badly on the sea voyage to Persia.

  ‘Yes, the bloody seasickness,’ Ian replied with a twisted grin. ‘How about you fetch us a mug of tea as sweet as you can make it, Sergeant?’

  Conan nodded and went in search of tea. Ian gazed across the water at the right bank of the waterway fringed with palm and date trees intermingled with shepherd boys grazing their herds of goats. How far he had come from the riverbanks of his favourite swimming hole in the shadow of the Blue Mountains that hemmed in Sydney Town. The real Ian Steele was long dead now, and he was Samuel Forbes.

  Six

  Great flocks of duck and teal scattered before the bow wakes of the war steamers pushing up the river. On the banks dwarf poplar and thick willow trees flanked the flotilla, beyond which the desert dominated, with the occasional tufts of coarse, dry grass. No longer were there orchards of date palms or any other signs of human habitation.

  This was what the real Garden of Eden must have looked like, Ian thought as he stood gazing out at the riverbanks.

  It was just after sunset when the flotilla anchored below the ruined Arab fort of Kootul-el-abd. Ian landed with a party of officers and found the fireplaces of the enemy’s bivouac within fifty yards of the river. They also found the wheel marks of artillery guns and Ian knew they were closing on the retreating army as the impressions were relatively fresh.

  The following morning the flotilla set off again, and by mid-afternoon the ruined mosque of Imaum was spotted. Again, a party of officers landed and found evidence that the combined Anglo-Indian expeditionary force was yet closer to their objective. They found freshly dug graves and a ruined mud house that appeared to have been the temporary shelter for the Shah-zadeh himself. One thing Ian commented on to his fellow officers was the absence of the usual scraps of food around the enemy campsite. They agreed that the Persian force must be low on provisions. It was hoped that they might reach the vanguard of the retreating enemy before it could reach the prepared fortifications. However, the next day the flotilla ran into a series of narrow bends in the river where the water was channelled into a strong current that slowed them down.

  On the third night the Anglo-Indian steamers came opposite the Arab village of Ismaini where information was gleaned that the Persians had passed by the previous day with seven regiments and two thousand cavalry. It was still a formidable force. A straggler from the enemy army had been captured. He was almost dead from hunger and informed his captors that a couple of the Persian commanders had died from their wounds and had been buried back at Imaum-Subbeh. More graves were discovered, and even the footprint of a desert lion.

  Eventually the Arab encampment of Omeira was reached and the unwelcome news imparted that the previous day the Persians had arrived at their fortified base at the town of Akwaz, fourteen miles north of their current position.

  The fleet was secured for the night against a surprise attack and a reconnaissance organised for the following day. Ian knew his men would see action tomorrow against a large dug-in enemy force. He gathered his company on the deck of their steamer and addressed them as to the forthcoming fight. He spoke calmly and reminded the red-coated soldiers that they were the finest light infantry in the British army and would make the regiment proud. His quiet and calming talk brought about a cheer from the men. Ian dismissed them and was joined by Conan.

  ‘So, this is finally it,’ Conan said, plugging his pipe and gazing at the star-filled sky rocking gently above.

  ‘Let us hope that the Persians repeat their efforts of the last time we met them,’ Ian said, also looking at the night sky, wondering if the people of the Bible had done the same thing in the times described in the Old Testament. ‘I have noticed that Molly has been writing to you,’ he commented.

  ‘She is a grand lady,’ Conan sighed. ‘I don’t know wha
t she sees in me.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Ian grinned. ‘But she is a grand lady.’

  ‘What about you, sir?’ Conan asked. ‘Is there someone waiting for you when we return to London?’

  ‘I don’t think there is anyone waiting for me,’ Ian replied, but an image of the beautiful young Ella Solomon, waving goodbye to his ship steaming from the London port, flashed before him. He tried to dismiss the memory of her sad smile. There was no future for a soldier of the Queen and the daughter of Ikey Solomon, one of London’s most ruthless men. After all, her Jewish religion put them in different worlds. Although Ian had been baptised a Catholic, he had never really been a religious man. His mother had been a Presbyterian who had despaired of her only child ever practising any Christian faith.

  As well as Ella, there was Ian’s first true love, Jane Wilberforce, who had mysteriously disappeared when she was pregnant with his child. Ian had not given up his search for her, even though it seemed very likely she was dead, probably at the hands of Charles Forbes. Jane’s identical twin, Rebecca, certainly thought so. Rebecca had been adopted as a baby and raised by the rich and powerful Lord Montegue and his wife. The sisters had been reunited in secret only months before Jane’s disappearance.