The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  There was no doubt that the dragoons were enjoying the sport. He could see for himself, and Sleeman said the same. But pleasant as Sthambadree was, and comfortable his quarters – a fine haveli whose widowed chatelaine was only too glad of their company – he chafed at wasting his time here. He might as well have stayed in Madras and tried his hand in the Coromandel Cup. With Granite, his Marwari-Arab, he’d had a good chance of winning. Except that he could hardly prize chasing pig over even more dangerous quarry.

  Perhaps there’d be opportunity next year. And a good many years after that. He smiled ruefully. The Indians always said they never saw a British grey-hair: the officer-sahibs either died or were posted home, the Company men took their fortunes and returned to England for a life of leisure. Yet he seemed destined to prove them wrong.

  Not that prolonging command wouldn’t be the greatest satisfaction – he’d thought of little else but command for twenty years – but command prolonged was ultimately command exhausted. He didn’t feel exhausted – he wasn’t exhausted – and was sure that others didn’t think so; but five years, as soon it would be, and with little prospect of action … Action, at least, as he knew it …

  Except this business of Chintal, perhaps. Yet somehow he couldn’t think it would come to a fight. When last he’d seen their army it was scarcely more than a rabble militia. A show of red-coated force would have scattered them like chaff before the wind. Nor was Chintal like Coorg: there were no mountains to speak of, no hanging forests, no rushing rivers. Above all, their ‘rajah’ was a woman.

  And yet, as Garratt himself had said (and many another), in cleverness and fortitude – in sheer gameness – the female of the species Felis tigris was greatly superior. Garratt respected the tigress because she raised her cubs and fended off predators, and would die in the act if need be. A tigress was like a fighting cock, which gives battle though knowing it will be killed.

  Well, he, Hervey, had seen tooth and claw enough in the Princess Suneyla when first he’d been in Chintal, and perhaps would do so again when it came to his mission of observation (in truth a reconnaissance for war). The Ranee was mercurial, said Sleeman, as well as venal – Hervey certainly knew of the quicksilver – and quite possibly on the lookout for a pretext to make war with Fort William, if only a war of words and martial bluster. And yet, Hervey would confess, he was himself animated by the prospect of seeing her again. Yes, Suneyla had schemed against her father, paying the price with banishment to the forest of the Gonds; but that apart, he’d admired her as a woman of spirit (and, he must admit, of some beauty), as well being intrigued by her … difference, as formed wholly in so alien – exotic – a place as this. Indeed, for a week or so they’d enjoyed some intimacy; it had been vocal only, but in the forest, when they’d gone to see the hamadryads, it had verged on something more. Later he’d trembled at the thought, for he was then affianced to Henrietta. He put it down to the heat, the humidity, the strangeness of the surroundings. No, there was not impropriety in his desire to see her again; just …

  Meanwhile the honour of the regiment rested on his ‘Bow Street patrols’ – and, he’d be first to admit, on the address of his particular friend. For Fairbrother’s gambit would surely prove the ace in Sleeman’s game, and he was determined that his friend should have recognition. Indeed, he’d already resolved with Sleeman that they’d jointly write the citation, directly to Bentinck. It was a pity, to say the least, that Fairbrother having discovered the whereabouts of Arjan Brar, Sleeman’s men let him slip. But then, although Sleeman had seen service, he seemed at heart a political. Hervey didn’t suppose he’d had opportunity to acquire that coup d’oeil which was the mark of the true cavalryman.

  And yet he couldn’t condemn him, for he’d seen how calmly he’d received the information that Brar had evaded his policemen. A lesser man would have railed against the incompetence of the inspector and his sepoys, but instead he’d congratulated them for taking captive the wife and children, and thereby made a half-capable officer an entirely loyal one. Besides, with all his pretty ones in custody, Arjan Brar wouldn’t lie low indefinitely, he said – and this time there’d be no escaping. (And, no doubt, he secretly chided himself for sending an inspector rather than going in person.)

  In truth, too, Hervey recognized the predicament Sleeman had faced. Arjan Brar’s house was in Chintal, if only a league or so. Sending his native police into a princely state was risky enough; going himself might have set back his entire scheme. Fort William had enacted the ‘hovering laws’ to prevent malefactors from taking advantage to carry on their trade – a right of ‘hot pursuit’, as the Americans called it, and the native rulers had shown no objection, but it was in their nature, said Sleeman, not to take issue with a proclamation in principle, hoping instead to circumvent it as the need arose.

  Besides, he, Hervey, had another concern. Their newest approver, Ghufoor Khan himself, had told Sleeman all in a contract to secure his life no matter what crimes were subsequently uncovered; he’d sung, as Sleeman put it, like a cock linnet. That meant, likely as not, that they’d soon be sharing the road with a vile murderer – and hardly a repentant one at that. It would stick in his craw. Was it right to grant a man such as this Ghufoor Khan his life when the full extent of his crimes was not yet known? He recognized that his own world was, as the saying went, black and white (which was why the business of Major Garratt gave him so much unease), while Sleeman’s was of types and shadows. How Sleeman managed being Solomon in this place he couldn’t conceive. They’d spoken of it, of course, the ‘greatest and continuing dilemma’, and Sleeman had said simply that he slept at nights only in the knowledge that such things as condonation, repugnant that it was, might – should – in time mean the obliteration of this savage guild, and the saving of thousands of other men’s lives. For to Hervey, with his Mutiny Act and King’s Regulations, condign punishment (inflicted wisely) was the surer, the proven way. And Sleeman had replied that in the early days he couldn’t be sure, for he too had been hard-schooled in military discipline, and his uncertainty had troubled him very greatly. Now that he believed that intelligence of the entire guild of thugs was within his grasp, however, he didn’t hesitate so much, though even so there were occasions when the discovery of past crimes brought him close to revoking his pardon. That, of course, would have been the end of his system of approvers, he said; for who would betray the guild only to be hanged later, doubly damned?

  Meanwhile, Hervey could console himself that he had Arjan Brar’s people (his wife – one of them at least – and children) hostage, fast within the sturdy walls of the old fort of Sthambadree atop a great hill – massive, impregnable for five centuries – and under close watch of Serjeant-Major Armstrong. Nothing was impossible, but with Armstrong, the improbable was not worth a moment of his consideration. So until Sleeman returned and they could discuss their next moves, and although he would have relished any diversion, there was office to which at last he could attend.

  Or rather, there were letters, for with the regiment dispersed there was really very little of routine to detain him. Indeed, that morning he’d dismissed St Alban before ten to accompany Georgiana on her daily exercise. The hircarrah had brought a full bag from Fort St George, including several letters from England. These – with a single exception – he looked forward to reading, but first there were the official papers, one in particular that caused him the keenest disquiet. Indeed, he’d been turning it over in his mind since first breaking the seal the night before, yet could find no answer, for he’d never dealt with its like. Yet the statement, from the chief book-keeping officer of the Commissariat, was categorical:

  I am now in possession of a sworn statement by an Indian of the highest reputation that the sum of 800 Arcot Rs was paid by him to the person of Major Garratt, in inducement to tender for supplies to His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons at Fort St George, this Thirteenth Ultimo …

  He couldn’t believe it. Or was it simply that he didn’t want to? Th
ere was some consolation at least in reading that there was no impropriety on the part of Collins; but Garratt? How could a man who’d proved so faithful and active in so short a time be just as corrupt as the run of native merchants? After all his years of being under authority and having soldiers under him, was he really no judge of men at all?

  But it was not a time for excessive pride. How now was he to proceed? ‘Always strive to do the right thing, because it is the right thing to do.’ Oh, the voice of his father, and of many a master at Shrewsbury! But what struggles of moment were theirs compared with matters of the regiment? Besides, doing the right thing was the easier part; it required only courage. How did one first discern the right thing? What indeed was ‘right’ in the profession of arms, an occupation encompassed about with a great many rules and regulations, but with rather more questions than the rules and regulations provided answers for? Was the right thing the most prudent course? Prudential judgement was the true practice of command, Lord George Irvine had been wont to say, not the blind practice of the King’s Regulations and the Mutiny Act. And that, he trusted, had ever been his own conviction, albeit conscious of the human tendency towards convenience. Was it for mere convenience – the regiment’s, but more particularly his own – that he now sought some way of avoiding the due process of military law?

  He trusted not. He cared nothing – well, nothing very much – for what the chiselling, fraudulent merchants of Madras would think. (They would likely never hear of it anyway, for what villain would complain to another of his own corruption going unrewarded?) But the confidence in the regiment of both officers and the rank and file – the confidence that their seniors were men not only of courage but of honour – was everything. Yes, he might use this case as an exception to prove the rule – ‘be ye ever so high, there is nothing higher than the law’ – but what might be its dispiriting effect? He simply had no precedent to consult – or even another whom he could trust, save, perhaps, Fairbrother.

  No, the decision would be his. That was the price of command.

  It helped, however, that he was still in acting command of the army. It gave him some latitude – some time at least. For with the papers from Fort St George had come a most opportune solution. But to gain that time he would have to move apace. Under the provisions of the new India Act, control of the island of Saint Helena would pass from the Company to the Crown. There was to be a three-year period of transition – the new governor, a major-general, would take up his post in a year’s time – and Madras was instructed to send forthwith a lieutenant-colonel to act meanwhile as garrison commander. The appointment was thus in his, Hervey’s, gift. He had the right to promote to acting rank, with the associated pay and privileges. He would appoint Garratt. Thus exiled, albeit not as permanently as had been St Helena’s most notorious resident, the whole business might conveniently be forgotten. (It could certainly not be pursued except at great cost, not least in time.) And promotion would contradict any hint of taint.

  It would serve, he concluded, for the greatest happiness for the greatest number.

  He took up his pen and began to write the posting order.

  Georgiana, meanwhile, had never enjoyed herself more. In so short a time – not even a year – she’d seen so much of the world, whereas in the whole of the fifteen years before, she’d seen but a page in the great volume. A delightful page – Wiltshire was very bliss, and London, what little she’d been able to observe, was full of wonders – but India … And now she was riding in the company of the finest of men: Lieutenant & Adjutant Edward St Alban was the handsomest, cleverest and most upright subaltern officer in the whole of the army!

  ‘Miss Gildea, do you suppose we might ask Mr St Alban if we may cross the Krishna today?’

  Annie, ever cautious – she had, after all, the care of Colonel Hervey’s firstborn – wondered what there might be on the other side to justify risking any more perilous encounters with ferries than absolutely necessary. The military ones she’d been confident enough of, but the native ones were to her altogether too lackadaisical. But Georgiana was so full of zeal to see the country – she told her what the chatelaine at the haveli had said about the temple carvings in one of the villages – and the weather was as perfect as could be …

  ‘Shall I ask him, Miss Hervey?’

  Georgiana blushed a little. She’d thought to ask him herself, but perhaps it was more proper for her governess to.

  He was anyway within earshot almost. He’d only trotted up fifty yards or so to have a word with the syce acting as guide – though what he could be saying when all he had was the stock words of command, she couldn’t imagine. She did think it funny that some of the officers seemed not to be able to make any headway with the language, and not for want of trying – though St Alban himself was undoubtedly so conscientious an adjutant that he could have little time for study. And it certainly didn’t help that the moonshee of whom everyone spoke had so inconsiderately abandoned his post. But that, they all said, was Indians. As Corporal Johnson had explained: ‘Tha sees, Miss ’Ervey, these ’Indoos don’t think like us. They reckon as they do things cos God makes ’em. Well, not t’real God – t’one they ’as. Except they ’as so many as it gets confusin’ for ’em because one god says one thing an’ another says another.’

  It may not have been expressed with much erudition, but she’d found it a good deal more enlightening than much of what she’d read. She was glad her father let him ride out with them this morning. She’d known him for as long as she’d known anyone who wasn’t family – indeed, in many ways he was family – and he always had a cheerful word. Well, perhaps not to everyone’s mind, but she herself thought it cheerful, even if to others it sounded crabby. It was nice, too, for Serjeant Acton to have someone to talk to. She’d have been as happy to talk away with him as with St Alban – well, not quite (she blushed, again, to admit it) – but Annie didn’t approve. Or rather, she reckoned, Annie didn’t approve of Serjeant Acton talking to her. For it was plain as a pikestaff that Serjeant Acton – who was without question the finest of men and soldiers too, all that a serjeant of dragoons should look like and be – admired Annie. And Georgiana would have jumped with joy had Annie said ‘yes’ to a proposal … except that, as Corporal Johnson said, ‘Officers’ wives have puddings and pies; a serjeant’s wife has skilly’ (to the tune the trumpeter played for the mess call), and she didn’t suppose that Annie liked the prospect of skilly any more than would she, especially now Annie was ‘Miss Gildea’ – although in character, she felt sure that Annie was now as she had always been, and that she would no more have sold herself for a bowl of skilly when there was none other to be had, as now when she dined at their own table. No, Annie deserved puddings and pies.

  ‘Mr St Alban, Miss Hervey asks if we may take a ferry at the river today.’

  St Alban had dropped back alongside them. ‘Indeed? Why, Miss Hervey, do you wish to take a ferry?’

  ‘To get to the other side, sir.’

  Johnson, riding behind, snorted. He liked it when young officers – even ones like St Alban – got a smart answer.

  St Alban smiled. Nor was it merely an indulgent smile for the child of his commanding officer. ‘And what, Miss Hervey, is so particular to see on the other side?’

  ‘Begum Mansoor says there are temple carvings in one of the villages that are very old.’

  St Alban wasn’t sure about temple carvings – there were some, he knew, that were not for the contemplation of ladies – but he supposed he could send Acton on ahead to have a look. ‘Of course, Miss Hervey. We’ll enquire at the next village where is the nearest horse ferry.’

  Annie steeled herself to ordeal by ferry once more. She’d have to dismount, which meant that she’d have to remount, and Serjeant Acton would try to assist her, and she’d probably have no alternative but to let him …

  But she did like being in the saddle now. The RM had even complimented her on her seat, which everyone said was no little thing, f
or he was a stickler for position (nor one to flatter), although how he was expert in riding aside as well as astride she didn’t know.

  And riding in weather such as this, fresher at last, the sun not so fierce that she had to carry a parasol (just a broad-brim bonnet served) was even more delightful. She hoped they’d get a gallop later, for this soft red earth was fine going for her mare. Granite, on the other hand, went well on any going; Georgiana had even managed to give St Alban a run for his money on the wet sand of the Saugor river a few days ago.

  So they went at a trot for the next village, and found it practically empty but for dogs and an old man selling sweet lime. St Alban bought up most of the limes, while the syce asked about the ferry.

  There was one a couple of cos straight ahead – four, perhaps five miles, said the man.

  St Alban nodded. ‘That’s within reach. How many horses will it take?’

  The syce frowned. ‘Sahib?’

  He tried again, in Hindoostanee.

  ‘Sahib, it is for horses,’ replied the syce, puzzled. (Had he not said that already?)

  ‘No, what I mean … Curse it; Miss Hervey, can you help? I wish only to know how many horses the ferry can take at a single crossing, for if it can’t take us all …’

  ‘Accha,’ she said assuredly, then rattled off the question with such clarity that the syce had no need to elaborate.

  The sweet-lime-seller replied to her direct.

  ‘It is a large ferry,’ she told St Alban. ‘We shall all be able to cross together.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hervey; I’m obliged.’

  The lime-seller glanced left and right, then spoke to her again, in a low voice.