The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Very well, twenty sicca rupees!’

  The ferryman, astonished, sprang to his work, laying about with his lathee several men already trying to board.

  Fairbrother saw the look of dismay on Ghufoor Khan’s face. He was sure he wouldn’t simply give up. It amused him, indeed, to think with what ingenuity he must now be concocting a ruse by which to inveigle himself and his followers onto the ferry.

  The bullocks were a little more intractable than usual, which at first held up the boarding, but in a quarter of an hour it was done. Then, just as Fairbrother and the baboo were about to follow, the Khan made his move.

  ‘Huzoor, I am a pilgrim bound for the great and holy shrine at Sthambadree. I will pray at the shrine for your companion who has the fever. Let us accompany him now, my three fellow pilgrims and I’ (he indicated each of them) ‘so that we may pray for him as we cross the holy river of Krishna.’

  Fairbrother nodded without waiting for the baboo to translate. It was plain enough that just four would come aboard – better odds, indeed, than he’d expected.

  Once the bullocks were quietened and the lathees had done their work – more than one traveller had swum to the side to try to get aboard – the ferryman cast off and his men began hauling on the ropes. Fairbrother took himself to the front, deliberately apart. This, too, seemed to suit Ghufoor Khan, who spent the half-hour of the crossing in chanting and earnest hand clasping.

  At the other side, all went well, the hubbub among the waiting crowd masking the instructions Fairbrother gave the corporals. He didn’t intend waiting long before his move – a mile or so, out of earshot of the ferry.

  The bullocks were obliging, and the party set off at a good pace, Ghufoor Khan and his men attaching themselves, just as Fairbrother had anticipated, and continuing their chanting. Again, it amused him to think what the Khan had planned: the lughaees would already be this side of the river, digging a pit at the appointed place; the bhuttotes, the stranglers, would be across next, in an hour or so, and would move quickly to make up time, joining their master before evening, or wherever it was they’d arranged. Doubtless the Khan was confident that he himself and his three henchmen could do the deed if it were necessary, for to him this sahoukar and his servants – and their sick companion – must hardly look fearsome.

  The sun was now high, the heat growing – the time for refreshment and rest. It would be no strange thing to find some shade and boil up a little coffee, and rice. Ghufoor Khan would be only too pleased at the delay; the rest of his men would be with him sooner.

  Three-quarters of a mile on, Fairbrother found a good spot. The road was clear in both directions, not a soul even in the fields, such as they were, and no village for another mile and more. A sal grove offered shade – and cover for what he intended.

  The syce led the bullock cart to the edge, just as the baboo instructed. Ghufoor Khan and his men kept so close to it that they didn’t see the corporals and Private Askew slip into the grove. When the baboo said, ‘The huzoor invites you to take refreshment with him’, they were at once delighted.

  A bearer spread a mat and Fairbrother bid them sit – exactly as the thugs would with their victims. He couldn’t resist a smile of satisfaction, but again to himself.

  The instant they were settled, Fairbrother still courteously on his feet, out from the sleeve of his kurta came the service pistol, and out from the sal sprang Askew and the corporals.

  Surprise was complete. Fairbrother lost no time: while Askew and the corporals pulled the three others aside and the bearers bound their hands and feet, he slipped a yellow scarf round the Khan’s neck.

  ‘You are Ghufoor Khan. You are wanted for murder. Tell me why I should not strangle you here and now, as you have strangled others!’

  The baboo translated excitedly.

  ‘No, no, huzoor! I am humble merchant and pilgrim!’

  Again baboo-sahib translated, but there was hardly need.

  ‘Banji Lal!’ shouted Fairbrother.

  Out from the bullock cart jumped the approver, though none too boldly.

  ‘Do you recognize this man, Banji Lal?’

  ‘Accha, sahib. He is Ghufoor Khan.’

  The Khan’s eyes – murderous – left no doubt.

  Fairbrother yanked the scarf and dug the pistol into his neck.

  ‘You will tell me where is Arjan Brar.’

  ‘I not know who is Arjan Brar.’

  ‘Speak to him, Banji Lal. Tell him we know all, and will hang him and his accomplices here and now if he doesn’t oblige.’

  Banji Lal spoke animatedly, reinforcing his words with gestures that left no doubt as to the fate of Ghufoor Khan and his party if they didn’t cooperate, though he said it more with anxiety than menace, for he couldn’t quite believe this considerable man of thuggee could have exposed himself so, and feared that at any moment the rest of his men would appear and put them all to the sword.

  The same thought hadn’t escaped Fairbrother. But he might use it to his advantage yet. The Khan still vehemently denied that he was who he was, and all knowledge of Arjan Brar. For what had he to fear if he could play for time?

  ‘Corporal Spence!’

  ‘Sir!’

  Fairbrother whispered his orders. Spence nodded grimly.

  ‘Very well, Ghufoor Khan, which of these three men of yours is the most honoured, and which the most lowly?’

  Ghufoor Khan looked puzzled, but if the game won him time, he’d play it willingly enough.

  ‘Akash Roy, of the blue turban, is my oldest friend; Bhargava, of the beard, is my servant.’

  ‘Very well. Bhargava shall die at once unless you tell me where is Arjan Brar. And then the next in importance, and then Akash Roy, and then you yourself, Ghufoor Khan. For if you will not tell, you are of no use to me – a burden, indeed, as your men try to catch us and we flee for the safety of the police post at Sthambadree.’

  The Khan was alarmed. He hadn’t expected such a threat.

  But could it be real? Would these agents of the British Company – or whatever they were – hang them like dogs at the side of the road?

  ‘I know not this Arjan Brar!’

  ‘Very well. Proceed, Corporal Spence!’

  Spence beckoned to Askew to unbind the feet of the least of the accomplices and drag him to the bamboo thicket beside the grove.

  Once out of sight he gave him the nod. ‘Good and clean, Davey lad.’ Askew swung his fist so fast the man was flat on his back before he could even flinch.

  ‘Stone cold. Nicely done, Davey. Get ready.’

  Spence fired into the ground, then stepped out of the thicket for all to see, the pistol smoking obligingly, while Askew dragged the unconscious Bhargava into view for a second or so, as if moving him to make way for the next.

  ‘So, Ghufoor Khan, you think I am not a man of my word? Where is Arjan Brar?’

  ‘Tell him, Ghufoor Khan, tell him!’ shouted the next to die.

  ‘Yes, tell him, Ghufoor Khan,’ echoed Akash Roy, the next-but-one. ‘Why should we die for that rich fellow who takes more than his fair share?’

  Ghufoor Khan shook his head.

  Fairbrother feared he was thwarted.

  But then the next-to-die gained heart. ‘I will tell you, huzoor, if you spare me!’

  ‘I too, huzoor,’ said Akash Roy.

  Fairbrother brightened. ‘Take them aside, separately, baboo-sahib, and make note of what they say. If they differ …’

  ‘Accha, sahib!’

  It was done, and quickly. And the name of the place was the same.

  Fairbrother smiled. ‘So, Ghufoor Khan, these men have told me where is Arjan Brar, and I shall spare their lives. Yours, though, is forfeit. Corporal Spence!’

  Spence hauled him to his feet.

  ‘And further, Ghufoor Khan, you are a Mussulman, but you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Rather, I myself shall smear you in the blood of Bhargava, your Hindoo accomplice, and shall shed on you my own, an infid
el too, so that you will be doubly defiled!’

  The Khan was now much alarmed. He looked anxiously about him, then fell to his knees and beat his breast. ‘It is better that Arjan Brar, an infidel also, is taken than I dishonour Allah by dying defiled. I will tell you his hiding place, huzoor.’

  The baboo explained, and Fairbrother nodded. ‘Tell him that if the name of the place is not that which is given by the other two, I will have all my men defile his body, in every way, and then shoot him with my own hands.’

  Ghufoor Khan bowed meekly, trembling, and gave the baboo the name of the place.

  It was that which the others had given.

  XII

  And All His Pretty Ones

  Two days later

  Fairbrother cursed. If only he’d come himself instead of wasting time reporting to Sleeman, but those were Sleeman’s express orders: as soon as a likely approver was taken, he was to be brought at once for interrogation. The information he’d volunteer in the early days of capture would be far greater than if he were left to mull over his condition. That, at least, was Sleeman’s experience. Yet what information could be more valuable than taking Arjan Brar, who might then himself turn approver? Usually Fairbrother had no great liking for the rules; he was, he liked to say, one of Nature’s irregulars, but respect for his old friend – Hervey – had this time bound him to Sleeman’s instructions.

  He was doubly annoyed with himself because when they’d handed over Ghufoor Khan and told him the whereabouts of Arjan Brar, Sleeman decided to stay and interrogate the Khan and instead send one of his inspectors to arrest Brar. Fairbrother therefore found himself acting under orders of a native officer – and a policeman at that – which severely tested his pride, though not perhaps as much as that of his two corporals. Except that the inspector’s zeal was not to be faulted.

  The following night found the party – the inspector, a dozen of Sleeman’s sepoys, and Fairbrother’s men – lying up in a grove of coral trees half a mile outside a village of no note astride a track on which even a bullock cart would have struggled to make progress. Fairbrother had argued for closing at once, but the inspector was certain they’d find the house empty – at least of Arjan Brar, who, having probably heard of the taking of Ghufoor Khan, would be lying up at a distance from the village during the day. It made sense, and Fairbrother conceded that they’d have only the one opportunity to close on the house, but in the pitch darkness how would they know when he returned? They wouldn’t, said the inspector, so they’d have to lie up most of the night as well, descending on the house only in the early hours.

  And a shivery night they had of it too after the ground had given up the heat of the day, such as there was. Nor could they risk a fire to cook with. There was a bit of a moon, such as the unseasonal cloud would allow, but at least it was dry. Likely the whole month would be, which was one of the reasons he knew Hervey wanted to make progress with Chintal, and he sympathized with his chafing at the delays. This thug-hunting was goodish sport, he supposed, but it wasn’t soldiering …

  ‘Captain-sahib, now is time to go.’

  Fairbrother sat up. He’d not slept. Not much, certainly. ‘Very well, Inspector-sahib. Your men in place at the rear?’

  They’d agreed that the best course was to have half a dozen sepoys creep around the edge of the village to the back of the single-storey walled house in case there was a watch at the front. There’d be little chance of catching Brar if he bolted now, not with two hours to daylight.

  ‘No, Captain-sahib. I changed the mind. Men are good, but most unready still.’

  Fairbrother swore to himself. It was too late to do so to his face; and besides, it didn’t do to undermine the inspector’s authority, however ‘unready’ his men were. But if only he’d told him earlier he could have sent Spence and Smale … ‘Then the quicker we move, the better.’

  ‘Accha.’

  They could at least do that – move quickly – ‘unready’ though the sepoys supposedly were. They were up and stood-to-horse in minutes. Silently too. In no more than ten they were mounted and away, but in a walk to keep down the noise.

  At least, too, the house would be unmistakable said their intelligence – new-painted white. Fairbrother began to feel confident again.

  The cloud thinned obligingly as they came to the edge of the village – a trifling place, a dozen or so dwellings, twenty at most. There were no lights of any kind, and no watchman they could see.

  There was just room to ride two abreast into the maidan, Fairbrother and the inspector leading. The whitened house stood the other side, clear as day, just as promised. Fairbrother took his pistol in hand. He hoped not to use it – he wanted to see this Arjan Brar die by the drop – but if it came to a fight he wanted it to be he who dispensed justice. Ghufoor Khan had left him in no doubt as to Brar’s depravity.

  The inspector’s best naik and three sepoys rode to the rear of the house while the rest dismounted. Horse-holders took the loosed reins, and the remaining six and Fairbrother’s four made ready to storm the last refuge of the secrets of thuggee.

  There were two high, shuttered windows and the solid, studded door of the better sort of village dwelling. It was still too dark, even with the cloud gone, to make out detail, and the inspector told the havildar to light the lanterns. It took a minute or two, but the result was immediately impressive, the white walls helpfully reflecting the light. Confident, now, that if Arjan Brar made a dash for it he’d be seen at once and caught, the inspector advanced on the door, flanked by two naiks with drawn swords and Fairbrother with his pistol.

  Doors and windows in the sturdier dwellings were invariably barred at night, or even secured with a lock. The inspector banged with his fist.

  No sound came from within.

  He banged again and shouted for all the village to hear: he was an inspector of police and whosoever was inside must open the door at once.

  Still nothing.

  ‘Havildar, fire your musket at the window.’

  ‘Ji, sahib!’

  The noise was twice that by day. The ball struck dead centre; splinters flew; one of the shutters swung open.

  The inspector told him to reload and fire again.

  As the havildar came to the aim, however, they heard the bar being drawn.

  ‘Wait!’ The inspector held up the lantern, and his sword.

  The door opened just enough to show a face, and another, that of a child.

  The inspector spoke firmly but politely: was this the house of Arjan Brar?

  The woman said it was, but that he wasn’t there. Another child’s face appeared.

  Where was he, asked the inspector.

  The woman said she didn’t know.

  Fairbrother caught the Hindoostanee and became impatient.

  But the inspector wouldn’t be hurried; he had the house in a noose as tight as the thug’s roomal. ‘You are his wife, and these his children?’

  ‘Ji, sahib.’

  He asked if there were any others in the house.

  She said there was a third child, an infant – a boy.

  He asked if the boy were Arjan Brar’s son.

  ‘Ji, sahib.’

  Only then did the inspector say he was obliged to search.

  The woman made no objection.

  The sepoys returned their swords and lit more lanterns.

  The inspector began his search.

  It was soon evident, however, that the woman had spoken the truth – at least that Arjan Brar wasn’t in the house. Whether or not she was his wife, and the children his, was another matter; as was his whereabouts.

  The inspector now ordered his havildar to make a search of everything that was in the house: ‘Light all the lamps, and examine every last item.’

  Fairbrother went outside again and told his men to make what breakfast they could: he expected they’d be here till daylight at least.

  The inspector came out half an hour later, his face both anxious looking and exasper
ated. ‘Captain Fairbrother-sahib, he is gone, this instant I believe.’

  ‘This instant? How in heaven’s name—’

  ‘Sahib, there is door in floor of house, under bed of infant. There is hole in earth under wall, just one, two yard.’

  Fairbrother quickened. ‘You mean he may have escaped us?’

  ‘Sahib, there is sandal in hole, and other door is open yet.’

  Fairbrother angered. ‘But your men – didn’t they see him?’

  ‘They see nothing, sahib. It is black as the pitch, and door is hidden by wall.’

  ‘Wall? What wall? Oh, in heaven’s name … Too late now. We’ve just got to find him.’

  ‘Yes, sahib, but how?’

  Fairbrother thought for a moment. This was the inspector’s business after all; surely they were used to hue and cry?

  ‘See, he can’t run far, not even with two sandals. It’ll be light enough in an hour to search every house in the village. And if he has run, then he can’t be more than a mile away now. We must make a cordon at once: four parties, two or three in each, to ride out a mile at the four hands of the clock – you understand, inspector-sahib?’

  ‘Accha.’

  ‘Then let my men take the lead, and give me four sepoys, and after you’ve searched all the houses you can begin searching within the cordon. There’s not a lot of cover as I saw. You’ll be able to search well from the saddle.’

  ‘Accha, sahib; it is good plan.’

  But he sounded dispirited.

  Fairbrother softened. ‘Inspector-sahib, we have his wife and children, and we can catch him.’

  XIII

  The Deceiver

  Sthambadree, twelve days later

  ‘Not a job for cavalry, but only cavalry can do it.’ Hervey sighed, and none too contentedly. His regiment was strung out along the roads of the Northern Circars like the old Bow Street redbreasts. To see all of his five troop leaders in less than a week was no small achievement. The devil of it was that when they deployed in this way – not even as squadrons – they didn’t in truth need his command. Sleeman had devised a very promising scheme to overwhelm the thug circle south of the Godavari, and it was now just a business of awaiting results.