The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  Georgiana lowered hers too as she posed his question to St Alban. ‘He asks if you are an officer of the British king.’

  St Alban smiled at him civilly. ‘You may tell him “yes”, of course.’

  She did, and the lime-seller nodded and then lowered his voice to a whisper.

  The syce looked anxious, unable to catch much.

  Georgiana looked confident, asked the man a question or two in clarification, and at length turned again to St Alban. ‘He says he is very glad to see you, for there is no kotwal – policeman – here any more, and there is no one who will protect honest men. He says that a short time ago, this very morning, a large band of dacoits passed though – twenty, perhaps thirty men, not from these parts – carrying much baggage. All the people of the village ran into the fields at their approach, but he could not because he is old and infirm. They would have plundered the village, he says, but they seemed in a hurry to be on. He believes they are phansigars.’

  So complete was the report that St Alban had no question to ask of their informer, only of himself: what might they do about it?

  ‘Thank him for his information, Miss Hervey. Tell him he’s an honest as well as a brave man.’

  She did, and the lime-seller smiled. He replied that, being old and crippled and possessing nothing but a few lime trees, he had nothing to fear.

  ‘Then if he is right and we apprehend these bandits,’ said St Alban, ‘he shall have some reward – but don’t tell him that. Ask where are the nearest kotwals.’

  She asked, and the lime-seller shook his head. He thought there were no policemen nearer than Sthambadree.

  St Alban frowned – Sthambadree, a ten-mile point. And likely as not there’d be no mounted police there either. Except there’d be Armstrong’s men, and Worsley’s nujeebs waiting for tomorrow’s sweep towards Kothapore. An hour to get there; then an hour back, and then beyond to the river, however far that would be.

  No, they’d never be able to intercept them, not before the ferry, and once the other side …

  Better therefore to gallop for the river and order the ferryman to stay the other side until …

  But that wouldn’t work, for they’d have to gallop past the thugs, who’d soon tumble to what was happening (they weren’t fools; that’s why they remained at large), and then they’d scatter, or lie low in some hideaway. No, he’d have to think of something else …

  ‘Serjeant Acton, gallop for Sthambadree and tell Colonel Hervey what’s t’do. Ask for every spare man to hasten here at once – here to this village and wait concealed till I return with the thugs.’

  ‘But sir, with respect, how are you to bring them back when they’re so many and there’ll be just you and Johnson?’

  ‘And the ladies, Serjeant; I’ll have need of Miss Hervey to speak for me – if, that is, they’re agreeable.’

  Georgiana’s eyes brightened. Annie’s, less bright, were nevertheless resolute (the price, perhaps, of ‘puddings and pies’).

  Acton looked horrified. ‘Sir, with respect—’

  ‘I know: yours is to cover the commanding officer and anyone he appoints you to, but these are the exigencies of the service. And the ladies have their pistols, and facility with them – thanks to you.’

  Acton now looked only slightly less horrified, but he was reconciled to the facts of life. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Go to it, then.’

  Hervey’s covering serjeant looked once more at Georgiana, as if for assurance, then saluted and reined about. ‘Here, Johnno,’ he said, sternly, handing him his own two pistols; ‘you’ll know what to do.’

  Then he dug in his spurs.

  Hervey broke the seal and began to read. A letter from Lord John Howard at the Horse Guards was always welcome, but now perhaps especially, for there must surely be something of especial intelligence, there being so many comings and goings in the London Gazette. As a rule, everything was at least six months out of date, though – even despatches by the steam route were four months gone as a minimum – but as events anyway took their time to have material effect, a considered commentary instead of a mere report was much to be preferred.

  Howard, lieutenant-colonel of Grenadiers, had in successive ranks and with very few interruptions served twenty years and more at the Horse Guards (it seemed that every commander-in-chief, including the Duke of Wellington, had thought him indispensable), and was a staunch friend and supporter. Somehow he’d managed to get the letter into the official bag, and thus overland; so its date was not too antique …

  It began with the whys and wherefores of various comings and goings in uniform, adding explanation to the announcements in the Gazette, and then (Hervey supposed) the gossip of White’s club, or whatever drawing room his old friend had been gracing, relating to Lord Melbourne:

  After my lord Grey resigned in July, His Majesty, obliged to appoint another of the Whigs in his place, as the Tories were not strong enough to support a government, sent for my lord Melbourne. Lord M however was not at first inclined to go, for he thought he would not enjoy the extra work that accompanied the office! Tom Young – his secretary you’ll recall – told me Lord M said to him ‘I think it’s a damned bore. I am in many minds as to what to do’ and that he, Young, told him ‘Why, damn it all, such a position was never held by any Greek or Roman, and if it only lasts three months, it will be worth while to have been Prime Minister of England’ & that Lord M replied ‘By God, that’s true. I’ll go!’

  Hervey smiled. He’d take pleasure in showing that to St Alban. It would do no harm to tilt a little at his certainty of Whig high-mindedness. But as he read on – there were four close-written sheets – he found nothing touching directly on himself. Yet if Melbourne were now prime minister, surely it couldn’t be long before Lord Hill thought it meet to approach him on the matter? After Bristol, his lordship had told him he’d put his name before Lord Goderich, the secretary at war, as a mere formality before submitting it to the King, and that Goderich had said that in the present circumstances he felt he couldn’t countenance it – and that he, Hill, knew that Goderich had canvassed Melbourne’s opinion and several others’, perhaps even Grey’s. Goderich had apparently said that once the sea was calmer he’d have no objection whatsoever. He, Hervey, had then asked Lord Hill how long he thought that might be, and Hill had said after the passage of the Reform bill. Well, the bill had been enacted these good two years, and still there was nothing. Would the ‘sea’ ever be calm enough? For there was but one consolation on relinquishing command – the gradation list.

  So what now stayed Lord Hill’s hand?

  He sighed and took up Kat’s letter, which had come by the Cape. He’d stared at the seal long enough; now he would screw up his courage to break it.

  The trouble was, he’d not written to condole with her on the loss of her husband. The last time he’d seen her was at Bristol, when Sir Peregrine Greville had presided at the court of inquiry. She’d been dismissive, to say the least. Not that he’d no right to be dismissed, but it had been Kat herself who’d invited him to their supper party. It had been an altogether disagreeable evening, for not only had she behaved strangely, so had Sir Peregrine. It had been as if each, in their own way and for their own reason, wished to warn him off. And there could have been no reason but the birth of a son – as The Times had it, ‘The twelfth of March at Rocksavage, County Roscommon, to Lady Katherine Greville, a son and heir.’ It had struck him at the time as being a curious wording: the heir was surely to Sir Peregrine? The child had no title to inherit from him, for his was KCB not Bart, so perhaps succession in the Irish peerage followed a different rule? Perhaps the child really was the heir, through Kat, to some Athleague remainder? But why did he concern himself? Only because of the nagging doubt that Kat reserved, as it were, the paternity – and that that was the cause of Sir Peregrine’s froideur that evening. And yet for several days afterwards he’d studied the announcements in The Times and found the wording entirely usual. What, therefore, was h
er design now in writing?

  The first two pages gave him no clue. They merely told him of not so much her widowing but Sir Peregrine’s passing, as if he’d been a distant cousin of theirs both. There were expressions of sorrow, but they lacked the quality of being heartfelt. Perhaps it was that she’d steeled herself to writing, as she must have done to many another. Sir Peregrine had not been a bad husband, only an absentee one, and considerably older than her. Or rather, in truth, it had been Kat who was the absentee, for she’d chosen not to accompany her husband to Alderney, where he was military governor, a post he’d held for nearly ten years before another sinecure was found for him in Ireland, which suited her more in her sudden and unexpected pregnancy. And so here was she now, a widow with child, about his age, undoubtedly left well provided for, and, he supposed, with looks and figure undiminished in the three years since he saw her last – and quite probably enhanced. What indeed was her design in writing?

  The third page revealed it in part, perhaps. She’d returned to London, already disdaining widow’s weeds, ‘for Greville would not have wished it’ –

  I hear talk that you will not be long in India, that Lord Hill has need of you and that you will be major-general in Ireland or in some such place. I dined with the Duke quite lately and he was of the opinion that your promotion was much overdue, but says that he has no influence in the matter these days because the Whigs are so much in the ascendancy and he is so heartily disliked by them and said I should petition Earl Grey, but that it would almost certainly be to no avail for he is so unbending a man, and that matters would be so much better arranged were Lord Melbourne to be in his place, for Lord M is a sensible man in these tempestuous times. I do of course know Lord M, he came to dine at Rocksavage on occasions when he was Chief Secretary but have not seen him in many months, he is so oppressed by the troubles in the country and I suppose you will have read there was a great tumult over his transporting some labouring men to Australia who had taken some secret oaths or some such and they are being called martyrs in the newspapers and even Parliament, but I shall endeavour to call upon him as soon as I am out of mourning, or even before if occasion presents itself, for I do so believe, as the Duke, that there is none more deserving of promotion after your exertions at Bristol, which Greville himself wrote to Lord M of in approbation or so I believe.

  Hervey cursed. He wished she wouldn’t meddle and intrigue so. It was no way for an army to arrange promotions. She’d meddled, even, with admiralcy, though in truth he couldn’t regret it. She’d told him of her efforts on behalf of his great, good friend Commodore Peto, who against all the odds – confounding even the surgeons by the extent of his recovery from the terrible wounds of Navarino – was now a port admiral. But had this really been her doing? The secret, black, and midnight process by which their lordships advanced a post-captain to flag rank might well admit of petitioning, for as Peto himself had said more than once, he’d known many an officer with red, white or blue at the mizzen whom he’d not trust to take a single ship to sea. Who knew what heads could be turned by a good ankle?

  And yet, if it helped his cause now, did it matter in the end? When it came to the time that he must, if with all reluctance, hand over the reins of the Sixth, could he bear to bide his time in that military purgatory between command and generalcy? Would it not be better to write in reply that he appreciated any effort on his behalf – doing so of course in a way that did not in the least suggest there remained any tendresse on his part – or indeed obligation – except the wholly proper feeling of friendship towards one whom he’d known before his marriage?

  He suddenly, more so than since leaving Fort St George, wished that Kezia were beside him.

  St Alban wouldn’t risk a fight, even one in which he knew that his and Corporal Johnson’s pistols and sabres would prevail. Not when he’d Georgiana and Annie in his care. This was not ‘the exigencies of the service’. Besides, the whole idea of being here was to apprehend these villain thugs, to turn some of them into approvers, and then to hang the rest – publicly, pour décourager – or else transport them. And there was nothing like a gallop to stimulate the mind. By the time their quarry had come in sight he’d decided against detaining the ferry and instead to attempt a ruse.

  ‘Miss Hervey, do you know what is the word for “opium”?’

  She didn’t, but the syce understood (if only the syce could string a few words of English together, or understand a few more, so that he, the adjutant of the 6th Light Dragoons, didn’t have to rely on a girl of fifteen or sixteen …).

  ‘Ahiphen, sahib.’

  ‘Mehrbanee, syce-bahadur.’ He turned to Georgiana, and looked resolute. ‘Miss Hervey, we are from the Opium Prevention.’

  Georgiana couldn’t yet guess his game, but she began rehearsing the words in her mind.

  They had but a minute before they overhauled the thugs.

  ‘Salaam!’ cried St Alban, pulling up sharp and raising his hand.

  He wished he were in red, but blue would have to do. His cap and white face would probably be enough – that and the pistol holsters.

  ‘Salaam, huzoor!’ The party shuffled to a halt and made gestures of deference, the leader salaaming with particular cordiality.

  ‘I am an inspector of the Opium Prevention. You have contraband opium in your possession, and sowars from Sthambadree have been ordered to take you back there.’

  He nodded to Georgiana. She turned to the leader and spoke quickly and fluently, with the same note of authority. The look on the leader’s face – innocence, puzzlement – told St Alban she translated well. He had to make an effort not to show his admiration.

  ‘But huzoor, we are pilgrims! See, here is our baggage. Search it – see for yourself!’

  ‘That’s as may be, but you’ll have to come back to the village you passed through last, to the customs post there, or you’ll be in trouble for evasion. If you have no contraband then you’ll be given a ticket of clearance to go on without further hindrance.’

  It was Georgiana’s turn for hiding admiration. These thugs, these phansigars, these deceivers – they would know they had no contraband; not, at least, the type the ‘Prevention’ were looking for, so they’d get a pass from the authorities that would see them safely through the whole of the Circars. It was so clever of him! And it was they who were called ‘the deceivers’!

  She repeated exactly what he’d said, looking as grave as she might.

  The leader looked delighted (and again she had to suppress a smile). What was a delay of a few hours, of a night perhaps, to gain such a pass? He’d walk back gladly.

  ‘Accha, memsahib! Accha, huzoor!’

  ‘You left her? You left her with just the adjutant and Johnson? What in hell’s name were you thinking of, man?’

  Armstrong’s voice carried across the courtyard to the guardroom. Serjeant McCarthy came running.

  ‘Sor, is everything all right, sor?’

  ‘No it bloody well isn’t! Get every man you can on ’is ’orse. Who’s guard commander?’

  ‘Corporal Verity, sor!’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘He’ll be fine, sor. What do you want for him?’

  ‘To make damned sure them prisoners stay put!’

  ‘Right, sor; I’ll tell ’im just that. And where’s it we’d be going with the others, sor?’

  ‘Never mind yet. Just get ’em ’ere!’

  ‘Sor!’ Out scurried McCarthy like a bookie’s runner. When the serjeant-major’s temper was up, it was best to cut about even more than usual.

  Armstrong could scarce believe it – an entire regiment, his regiment, and all they’d be able to muster were a few ‘odds and sods’. And they’d have to leave these prize prisoners in the care of Fanny Verity and a handful of sick, lame and lazy, for Christ’s sake! It was bad enough having Pat McCarthy as provost.

  ‘Shall I find the colonel and tell him, sir?’ asked Acton.

  ‘No, Serjeant, there’s no bloody time,’
growled Armstrong as he buckled on his swordbelt and grabbed his carbine. ‘An’ I’m not letting you out of my sight till you’ve led us back to yon colonel’s daughter – who you should never’ve left in the first place!’

  Acton bit his lip. There was no answering back a serjeant-major in any circumstances, not least when he’d just left the commanding officer’s daughter to a fate that couldn’t bear contemplating. Besides, every dragoon knew that Armstrong had nearly died trying to save her mother from the savages in Canada. The worst thing that could ever happen was to make the same mistake with another bunch of heathens. And if a few NCOs got a chewing up in the process, what of it?

  A good ten minutes passed before McCarthy returned with a corporal and eight men, but mounted ready enough.

  Armstrong muttered to himself. McCarthy, who’d first been an infantryman, and as Irish as when he’d left the Bog of Allen or wherever it was (certainly when it suited him), was still the footiest serjeant on a horse – and from time to time, the footiest corporal – but his cheeriness whatever the circumstances was worth a dozen sabres.

  ‘Pat, there’s a bloody band o’ bastards th’adjutant’s tricked into going with ’im to a village a dozen miles off, an’ the colonel’s daughter with ’em an’ all. Let’s be about it!’

  Armstrong wasn’t a man for throwing over the punctilios of drill lightly, but if by now a handful of dragoons couldn’t follow in good order, then he might as well hang up his spurs this moment. Out they went through the gate arch without a word, and into a trot at the foot of the ramp. He’d have to pace it; it wasn’t hot compared with Fort St George, but twelve miles was a long point. He’d warm them up for ten minutes, then they’d be clear of this place and on the road south, and then he’d take it at a steady canter for a couple of miles, see how they were faring – and then they’d bloody well gallop for it.

  St Alban and the others rode behind the ‘pilgrims’ and their carts – three of them, each pulled by a bullock – for the party knew where they were going, and he wanted to see they all got there. There was no cover beside the road, but it wasn’t impossible that one of them might just manage to conceal himself in a furrow of red earth. And he wanted to keep the pace up, too. (Let them dawdle and it might be dark before they got to the village – and with fewer than they’d started with.) Even so, after an hour they were strung out like women come from a fair.