Nightrunners of Bengal

by John Masters

  Geoffrey put his rifle to the tiger’s chest and fired both barrels. The tiger coughed, choked, and dropped away. The mahout yelled and swung the ankus with all his might, but he could not keep the elephant facing the front of the line.

  It ducked its head and swung round, while the howdah rocked. It jabbed down with its blunted tusks at the dying tiger and trumpeted. Then it hurried half a pace forward, and dropped its eleven thousand pounds of mass squarely on to its fore knees. The tiger’s breath boomed out in a harsh groan. The howdah bounced, and they clung to the framework while canteens, packets of sandwiches, and both spare rifles showered down past the mahout’s head on to the tiger’s corpse.

  Geoffrey wailed, “The skin! Mahout, save my skin!”

  The mahout could do nothing. He hung with his knees locked in behind the huge ears while the elephant trumpeted and squealed and kneaded the black and gold radiance until it was a pulp of fur and flesh, until blood ran out from the tiger’s nostrils and over its teeth, and the entrails spewed from its fundament.

  The elephant squealed at last in triumph and stood up, again facing the front. Rodney scrambled to his feet and looked round, feeling seasick. No one had noticed their adventure. He saw tigers everywhere, running up and across the slope, half a dozen of them. The hunters were in a pandemonium of excitement.

  A slim tigress ran out of the grass, raised her tail, and charged straight at Durga. Rodney took aim--no, that one was Dellamain’s; he waited in the aim. Dellamain leaned over, his big face white and crumpled. The rifle shook in his hand, and he fired.

  The tigress’s snarl grated under the shots, trumpets, squeals and screams. She sprang up, all claws extended and jaws wide, and landed high on Durga’s forehead. The mahout rolled sideways to the ground and ran. Durga shut her eyes, lowered her head, and charged a tree thirty feet off. As her forehead smashed against it the tigress released her hold and flung clear. The tree cracked, splintered, broke apart, and keeled slowly over. The howdah fastenings burst; the Rani, Dellamain, and the chief shikari tumbled in a heap to the ground.

  The tigress went mad. She sprang vertically twelve feet up, fell back, rolled over and over, bit at her spine, and bellowed. She bit the earth and attacked the fallen tree. Splintered wood and shattered boughs flew through the air in a cloud of dust. Rodney steadied his aim, but she was a whirling demon. He fired. The bullet smashed her across the broken tree as though she had been a kitten, but it did not kill her. Durga lumbered round and ran, the howdah bouncing and rattling beside her on the end of its tangled harness. He had his finger squeezing the trigger again when she passed between him and the tigress. The trailing howdah knocked the Rani down, and when he could see again the tigress was out of sight. From the corner of his eye he saw Dellamain throw down his rifle, turn, and run. The chief shikari writhed on the leaves, held one knee, and groaned. The Rani climbed slowly to her feet.

  The tigress crouched in a dip of land behind the broken tree. He could see nothing but her lashing tail, and Sumitra stood too near his line of fire. Her hands hung at her sides, the sari draped her shoulders, and her head was up. She must have looked straight into the tigress’s eye, for they were less than ten feet apart.

  Rodney put one hand on the edge of the howdah and vaulted out. Geoffrey’s cry faded in his ears. A long, long fall, watching the tigress all the time; he must land on his feet, he must not stumble for a fraction of a second; he must land on both feet, balanced, the rifle in his shoulder and his finger on the trigger. Ten feet to fall--not to look down, to watch the lashing tail. While he fell the tail rose. The earth smashed up under his feet, the rifle came into his reeling shoulder, the yellow eyes sprang out. The eyes passed Sumitra, still as a silken statue, and came on. He did not hear the roar, for all of him was in the sights--in the V of the backsight, the bead of the foresight, the expanding eyes. He fired in her teeth. The recoil knocked him on his back, and the eyes and a quarter of a ton of gold fur somersaulted on to him. The sun went out, and it was painless, dark, and without breath.

  The sun on his eyelids ... a whirlpool of light in his head . . . men grunting. They dragged the tigress off him, and each breath stabbed a spear of ice into his lungs. Sumitra was there, her hands at her sides, exactly as she had faced the tigress, but now she was looking at him. Suddenly she grasped at a tree, and men ran to help her.

  Geoffrey’s arm was under his shoulders, helping him up, and when he stood the arm supported him. He felt his bones and moved his limbs and laughed unsteadily. His ribs ached, and that was all. The princes crowded round him, touching and murmuring; Lady Isobel limped up and kissed him; Geoffrey stammered incoherently. The Rani thanked him with a sudden stilted formality, but did not meet his eyes. Sir Hector Pierce strutted through among the awed whisperings and wavings and stopped a yard from where Rodney stood between Geoffrey and Isobel. Sir Hector was wearing checked trousers, a brown frock coat, and a tall beaver hat. He swept the hat from his head and spoke in a small lilting voice that yet enforced silence with the effectiveness of a pistol shot.

  “Captain Savage, the hand of the Almighty guided you and kept you.” His mouth shaped a prim smile; the skin crinkled round his eyes, and Rodney felt the force of an overwhelming personality embrace him with its approval. He found himself blushing like a girl as the general continued, “I am privileged to have made your acquaintance, sir.”

  He replaced the ludicrous hat, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked away. No one smiled.

  From the edge of the crowd de Forrest muttered a phrase of congratulation. Caroline Langford caught Rodney’s eye but said nothing; he thought she was crying. Lady Isobel definitely was. He patted her shoulder and said, “I’m all right, Isobel, quite all right. There’s no need to cry now.”

  She sobbed. “I know--but we’re all so proud of you.” Then they took him back to camp.

  He slept till seven, and awoke stiff and bruised but well. The Rajah of Mamakhera sent his barber over to massage him, and while the man was at work Geoffrey sat on a canvas chair beside the camp bed and told him the news. Mr. Dellamain had taken to his tent and given out that his ankle was seriously injured. He had in consequence already received many straight-faced messages of condolence from the princes. The Nawab of Purkhas composed his in the form of an elegiac Persian quatrain. The Dewan had had the head elephant keeper’s right hand cut off, and intended to proceed in the same manner, a member a day, till there was. nothing left.

  Rodney sprang up, swore, and scribbled a scornful note to the Rani. Rambir went off to deliver it; Geoffrey left; Rodney ate a meal and dozed off again.

  Lachman the bearer was shaking him. “Sahib, ek admi a-gya.” Rodney propped himself on one elbow, saw the lamp was lit, and looked at his watch--eleven o’clock. He said, “What sort of a man? Damn it, it doesn’t matter, tell him to come in.”

  The visitor was a Kishanpur court servant. He sidled into the tent behind Lachman, salaamed, and said, “Sahib-bahadur, His Excellence the Dewan asks if you can spare a minute to talk with him on urgent business. It is about your sepoys.”

  Rodney slipped out of bed and pulled on the black suit and white shirt which Lachman had put out. He couldn’t imagine what had happened to the company. They were still in the river camp downstream; Narain was in command and sent a messenger up every other day; the reports so far had been that all was well. On the other hand, anything might have happened--fire, rifle accident, man run amok, someone drowned, cholera--oh, God, not that, not so soon. He hurried after the servant through a maze of tents until the man stopped at the end of a canvas alley outside a big marquee. Only then did it strike him that the Dewan might have had the consideration to come to him instead of sending for him at eleven o’clock at night. He paused, drew himself upright, pushed back the flap with a curt swing of his arm, and strode into the marquee.

  The canvas walls and roof were dyed the same shade of red-brown as the stones of the fort. A few small tapestries decorated the walls, and Tabriz carpets in grey a
nd blue patterns covered the grass. A lonely black and gold figure sat with crossed legs and upright back on a profusion of scarlet cushions. It was the Rani. He slowed his stride, putting his heels down less emphatically.

  She sat in an amber pool of light under the highest point of the roof. The lamp was on a table beside her, with a carved metal box, an enamelled vase, and a bowl of jasmine petals floating on water. In each corner of the canvas room a charcoal brazier stood on bare grass, making the air warm and slightly acrid. She was watching his face as he came on towards the light; her expression was drawn, but he could not interpret it. He realized that his mouth was set in the hard lines it fell into when he was angry.

  Now he was here he’d tell her of his decision--but not just yet; he’d have to choose his moment. If he spoke now she’d think from his face that he was annoyed with her, and he wasn’t. He relaxed the muscles of his face, smiled, and stopped beside the table. Looking down on her, he said lightly, “Well?”

  She dropped her eyes. “The Dewan did not send a message to you.”

  “That I had already begun to suspect, ma’am.”

  “I sent the message. I wanted to thank you. I was afraid you would not come unless I said it was about your company.”

  “That wasn’t necessary, ma’am. I had to come and see you sometime anyway, to--“

  She swept her hand up to rearrange her sari and knocked the metal box off the table. It burst open, and a few rings and loose gems--emeralds and rubies--rolled out on the carpet.

  “Oh! How careless! Let me help.”

  She swirled off the cushions and knelt beside him, picking up the stones and putting them back in the box. While Rodney still knelt, peering about for any that had been overlooked, she said, “Will you have some peach sherbet? It is cold. I think this tent is hot? And I have sweetmeats, and brandy to drink your health. Please sit down.”

  He lowered himself to the cushions and arranged his legs beneath him. The Rani clapped her hands twice, and waited. No one came. She shrugged carelessly. “A woman without a husband is always badly served. I will bring them myself.”

  She went out at the far end of the marquee and glided back almost at once with a tray of gold and black Jaipur enamel work. The brandy was still in its labelled Courvoisier bottle; the sherbet flagon, the two goblets, and the sweetmeat dish were of honey-coloured Venetian glass. An opened but full box of cigars stood on the tray. He saw that they were the Burma cheroots he usually smoked, and took one. She moved quickly, poured a mixture of brandy and sherbet into each glass, put the filled glasses into his hands, brought him a live coal in tongs from the brazier, held it to his cigar. His hands were full, and his mouth stopped by the cigar; he could not move or speak, and did not much want to. Warmth, inside and out, smoothed his aches and doubts.

  At last she sat down, not very near him, and took her glass. She had not met his eyes once since he had first spoken. He felt a constraint of shyness, knowing what he must say to her.

  Still looking down, she idly swirled the mixture round in her glass. “How would an Englishman thank a person for saving his life?”

  “Well--usually he’d say, ‘That was uncommon civil of you.’ Perhaps he’d shake the person’s hand. It rather depends on whether the two had been introduced.”

  “Then I suppose I had better do that. It was uncommon civil of you to save my life today, sir. Is that right?”

  “Perfect, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. And if it was an English lady, what would she talk about when she had said it? If she had been introduced to the person.”

  “Herself. Or possibly the weather. She’d say, ‘Haven’t we been having a lot of weather recently?--for, of course, the time of the year.’ She might discuss the servants.”

  “I have talked about the servants already, have I not?

  Myself--I have nothing to say. The weather--“ She held the empty glass in her lap, and turned away to refill it. When she faced him again he looked for an instant into her eyes and saw tiny lines of strain at the corners and by her mouth. It must have been a terrifying experience to face the tigress, unarmed. She looked away. “What can I say about the weather?”

  “Oh--’It’s unusually hot--or cold.’ “

  “Is that what I say?”

  “It’s customary, ma’am.”

  “Very well. It is unusually hot--or cold--this evening, is it not, Captain Savage?”

  “No, no--one, but not both.”

  “It is not true. It is very good, between hot and cold. That is why we have the tiger hunting at this time of the year. Your orderly brought your note to me, about the Dewan. I told him to stop what he was doing. I had not heard of it.”

  “Of course I knew that, ma’am. Sumitra, I’ve been thinking about--“

  She jerked up her hand, turned her head, and said sharply, “Shh! Sunta nahin?”

  He listened but could not hear anyone trying to get in. He whispered, “I can’t hear anything.”

  “I can. I will look.”

  She walked silently to the entrance and pulled back the flap. He saw over her shoulder that there was nothing there in the alley between the tents; the stars rode through blue-white clouds above the trees. A draught of cold air tugged at the flame of the lamp. She closed the flap and came back to the cushions, shrugging.

  “Nothing. I am sure I heard a noise. Please have some more of this. It is good brandy, I think? It is imported through England.” In pouring, she splashed several drops on to the table. “It is from a shop in London. The Rajah bought from them. The Commissioner who was at Bhowani before Mr. Dellamain told him about the shop--that was Mr. Coulson. I met him once. He was a small man with pale hair, and I think his manners were coarse, but he was liked by the Rajah. Do you think the brandy is good? It is easy to make a mistake when you do not know exactly. Our tastes are different. Miss Langford tried to tell me about gold ornaments and carpets and too many pictures, some- thing about taste, but I did not understand her. She is of a great family, and related to the lady who limps, you said. But she is not a clever woman, and not beautiful. These glasses--we ordered them direct from Venice. The Commissioner before Mr. Coulson was----“

  “Sumitra, I have----“

  The flow of her words turned off. The nervous animation drained from her face and left it utterly empty, the huge eyes hungry. In one motion she flowed off the cushions and knelt in front of him. He looked down on her bowed head, where a line of red lead marked the parting of her hair; she smelt of sandalwood and jasmine water. She brought her palms together in front of her face and moved them up to her forehead and down again in the gesture called namaste. Reaching out, she touched his right knee and foot in turn with her right hand, supporting her right elbow with her left hand as she did it. These were the signs that acknowledged overlordship, and Rodney’s eyes clouded. The sunlit dream had gone on too long; the incident of the tigress had thrown her off balance.

  She raised her head. “My lord, I cannot act any longer.

  I am not English. I cannot even thank you for saving my life. You are my lord and can save me or leave me as you wish. Only look at me kindly.”

  His bruises ached. He slowly set down his glass and cigar and put a hand under her chin. “Sumitra, don’t speak like that. I can’t--“

  “No! No!”

  She flung herself on him. He twisted his head, but her mouth was wide, soft, and wet, and a spasm contracted the muscles at the base of his spine. He put out his force, tightened his arms round her. She arched her back over and struggled open-mouthed for breath. She had given in, collapsed in a second from a queen to a woman. Had she? Had she not won a victory? There was pure joy and relief in her sigh as he relaxed a little the strength of his grasp, and deliberate abandon in her body curved back over his arms. Love him or not, at this moment she was using her sex for some purpose other than its own satisfaction. Angrily he recognized it from Joanna, and that six months ago-- what the hell was it she’d wanted that time?

  He
crushed with sudden brutality, so that Sumitra gasped and opened her eyes. His mind grated in fury. When she was a jelly of desire he’d let her go and bow and say coldly, “Was there anything you wanted of me, ma’am?” No one should use him. Damn Joanna, damn, damn, damn.

  She writhed in silence to break free, but he held her. With a desperate effort she jerked back an inch and tried to speak. Her breath heaved out in short gasps, and her eyes shone hugely luminous and black. Before she could say a word he slammed her back into his arms, closed her mouth with his tongue, and fought her to the cushions.

  She went soft, and even in his anger he knew that this was not the other deliberately clinging softness. This was a helpless, moving softness, shivering and moaning under him. This was a composite of all women east and west, and of all female need. Sandalwood, jasmine, a sharpness of musk, and a flame of brandy. He drew back quietly and looked into her eyes. This was Sumitra, and she loved him. Here were the keys to unlock power, power so flooding and full that he had to be gentle. He slipped his hand inside her sari, cupped her breast, and touched the trembling rigid nipple with his finger. He kissed her eyes and knew that she was pulling at the skirt of her dress. Her bare thighs were warm, and her hands were on him. She turned up her face and whispered, “My lord, I love you, I love you. I did wrong-- you don’t know, but go on, go on. I love you.”

  The love in her voice caressed him. He stroked his cheek against hers and could not speak for the welling up of tenderness. He wouldn’t harm her, sweet Sumitra who loved him, sweet tender tigress with her claws gone. With the boundless power she’d given him, he had to be gentle, had to be gentle.

  Near three o’clock he awoke. She was coming into the tent, walking as though pleasant weights dragged at her legs, and smiling to herself. He caught at her as she passed, and she sat down beside him and stroked his hair. Neither spoke for several minutes, till he said, “I ought to apologize, Sumitra--but I can’t.”