by M. M. Kaye
‘The trouble is that Canning’s too kindly a man,’ said Mr Coombs. ‘Wouldn’t like to ask for Jackson’s resignation after having appointed the fellow himself, and hoped things would improve, I suppose. But I understand that the stream of complaints about the mismanagement here grew too much even for his butter-hearted Lordship, and drove him to take the plunge and throw out his nominee in favour of Sir Henry.’
‘Well, I say it was a mistake,’ said Mr Barton thickly. ‘S’ Henry’s a sick man. Anyone c’n see it with half an eye. And a sick nigger-lover ain’t what I’d have prescribed for this province. No, by God it ain’t! I hear he was due to leave f’ England when the Governor-General’s letter came. He should ‘a gone!’
Mr Coombs surveyed his host with palpable distaste. ‘It’s plain you don’t know Sir Henry,’ he remarked. ‘He’d have come if he was dying. He knew! He knows how it is. He’ll do his best, and his best is a sight better than any other man’s in India. If anyone can check the rot, he will - though it’s my opinion the rot’s gone too far to check without bloodletting.’
‘Qui’ right, ‘agreed the Commissioner. ‘What did I tell you? Whiff o’ grapeshot, that’s the answer! Barnwell, the port’s with you—’
Sir Henry Lawrence, perhaps the best-loved man in India, had arrived in Lucknow late in March to take over the administration of Oudh from Mr Coverley Jackson. He was aged by grief and disappointment, and as Mr Barton had observed, in failing health. But at Canning’s request he had once again abandoned the hope of sorely needed home leave and had hurried to the help of Oudh. ‘… man can die but once,’ wrote Lawrence to his friend and pupil, Herbert Edwards, ‘and if I die in Oudh - after saving some poor fellow’s health or skin or izzat (honour) - I shall have no reason for discontent … But the price I pay is high for I had set my heart on going Home …’
No one knew better than the man who had settled the conquered Punjab and won the respect and affection of the defeated Sikhs what unavoidable tragedies resulted from such a change in Government, or how best to soften and mitigate the hardships and heartaches and hopelessness that inevitably followed in its wake. The news of his appointment sent a sigh of relief through half India. If anyone could tame the sulky, suspicious, wild-eyed stallion that was Oudh, it was Henry Lawrence.
The Conway Bartons had been invited to dine at the Residency, and Winter had had her first sight of the man whom Alex had spoken of as men speak of a god or a hero.
He was a tall man, thin to emaciation, and his grey hair and scanty straggling beard were already turning white. His haggard, hollow-cheeked face was scored with the lines of weariness and anxiety and the unending strain of sorrow for his wife Honoria, who had died three years before. But the grey, deep-set eyes were quiet and far-seeing, and they could still glow with the same fire and fervour and enthusiasm with which he had faced his task as a young man newly come to India, and which had inspired and led such men as John Nicholson and Herbert Edwards, Hodson and Alex and many others, to look upon him with affection and admiration as the best and wisest of all administrators.
The Residency was always full of guests these days, for the newly appointed Chief Commissioner kept open house for the nobles, landowners and gentry of the district, as one method of inspiring confidence and getting in touch with the opinions prevailing in Oudh. His jurisdiction did not extend beyond the borders of his own province, but as Lunjore touched upon those borders he had been anxious to meet its Commissioner, of whom he had heard little good. Mr Barton had not impressed him favourably:
‘As you are at the moment on leave, Mr Barton, you will possibly not have heard that there has been a serious incident in Barrackpore,’ said Sir Henry. ‘It will soon be common property, but I thought that you might like to know of it as soon as possible, in case you think it advisable, in the circumstances, to return to your district.’
‘Return?’ said Mr Barton, his pale eyes bulging. ‘Did you say Barrackpore? But that can hardly affect us. It is a far cry from Calcutta and Barrackpore to Lunjore.’
“‘Delhi dur ust,”’ said Sir Henry with a wry smile.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It is an old saying in this country,’ said Sir Henry. “‘It is a far cry to Delhi.”’ But I do not think that distance will serve to protect any of us, because what has happened in Barrackpore is likely to affect us all. The cartridge question was at the back of it again. It seems that a sepoy of the 38th Native Infantry fired on and then cut down the Adjutant and a sergeant-major who ran to his assistance, while a jemadar and twenty men who were watching refused to help. General Hearsey appears to have ridden at the man, who then shot himself. That happened the day before the 19th N.I., who mutinied at Berhampur, were disbanded, and I fear it may have unpleasant repercussions in every cantonment in India. There has already been a certain amount of trouble in Ambala, and the cartridge scare is spreading.’
‘It will blow over,’ said Mr Barton comfortably.
‘I wonder. I confess I do not like this business of the cartridges. It is the worse in that it contains a substratum of truth, as there is no doubt at all that proper care was not exercised, and denials may save us less than a frank acknowledgement of error and every effort to put it right. But in that I can have no say. I do not know how you have found it in your district, but in my opinion it is the Army and not the nobles and talukdars that we have to worry about; although I cannot in all honesty deny that the nobles have, in many instances, just cause for complaint. I have always thought that we are too apt to under-value Indian forms of Government and measure too much by British rules: and in defiance of common sense we still appear to expect that the erstwhile rulers of this country should welcome our taking to ourselves all authority and all emoluments! If we cannot treat them, particularly the soldiers, as having the same ambitions as ourselves, we shall never be safe. There has been bad feeling for many years among the Bengal Army, but now that they are beginning to realize how few we are they are discovering a dangerous consciousness of power. A havildar to whom I was speaking only the other day warned me that if we did not speedily redress their wrongs they would redress them themselves.’
‘I trust the brute was hanged as an example?’ said Mr Barton, his face crimsoning with affront.
The grey eyes under the beetling brows regarded him with dislike. ‘I do not punish men for telling me the truth,’ said Sir Henry coldly. ‘It has always been a wise policy - I am sure you will have found it so yourself - to allow men to speak their minds, since to prevent them from doing so is only to remain in ignorance oneself. Your district lies at so little distance from my own that disaffection here is bound to affect you in Lunjore, and I will not disguise from you that I am not without forebodings and apprehension as to the future. You have no Queen’s troops in Lunjore, I believe?’
‘No. There are three Regiments of Native Infantry. The 93rd and the 105th, a Regiment of Lunjore Irregulars and a contingent of Military Police. But I can assure you, Sir Henry, that we have had no reason for alarm or anxiety. Neither do I anticipate any. My district has never been quieter, and the Regiments are loyal to a man. I have every confidence in them.’
‘I envy you,’ said Sir Henry quietly. ‘I wish I could say the same. You have of course a very able assistant. How is Randall? I had hoped to be able to see him. He has the makings of a very promising administrator.’
Mr Barton shrugged. ‘Tolerable. Very tolerable. I won’t deny that he is a hard worker, but he takes too much upon himself. Does a thing and asks afterwards.’
Sir Henry smiled. ‘I fear that is a trait that I am responsible for. All my most promising pupils have suffered for it in consequence. But you know, Barton, it is, within limits, no bad thing. We suffer too much from the dead hand of officialdom in this country. Too many people are not prepared to take a risk or to do what they feel to be right, without first obtaining sanction in writing from a superior. And that wastes everyone’s time. I used to tell ’em to act on their own judgeme
nt and do what they thought was right. There are only three golden rules for an administrator. Settle the country. Make the people happy. Take care there are no rows!’
‘If Randall had his way,’ said Mr Barton sourly, ‘we’d have plenty of rows. He’s losing his usefulness and that’s a fact. Beginning to see a burglar under every bed, just like some pesky old maid!’
‘Indeed? That does not sound like Alex Randall. What particular burglars has he been envisaging?’
Mr Barton appeared slightly discomforted, for it had just occurred to him that there was a certain similarity between Captain Randall’s views and the ones expressed by his host. He said uncomfortably: ‘Oh, nothing much. Nothing much. Some nonsense about a plot for an organized rebellion. He got hold of some tale of chuppattis being circulated locally among the villages in my district, and would have it that this was a signal - a “fiery cross” he called it.’
Sir Henry surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘Not locally, Mr Barton,’ he said gently, ‘those chuppattis have been distributed through a large part of India, and I too am inclined to take them as something in the nature of … I cannot better Randall’s phrase, “a fiery cross”.’
Mr Barton’s countenance became dangerously empurpled, but he swallowed his annoyance and managed a shrug of the shoulders. ‘I had not heard that they had been observed in other districts,’ he admitted. ‘But I can assure you that as far as Lunjore is concerned, Captain Randall’s fears are entirely groundless. I cannot of course speak for the rest of India, but I am happy to say that my district is completely free from any taint of disaffection. And I know that in saying so I can speak for the regiments stationed there, for their commanding officers have severally and together assured me of their entire confidence in their men.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Sir Henry, rising, ‘I hope you may not think me impertinent if I suggest that the closest possible watch should be kept on the activities of the sepoys, and that an examination of the letters they receive or write might be rewarding. The times are troublous, Mr Barton, and it behoves us all to be on our guard, while at the same time giving of our best. Let us join the ladies.’
‘What did I tell you?’ demanded Mr Barton, relating this conversation with strong indignation to his wife as they drove homeward in the warm darkness to the Casa de Ballesteros. ‘He’s a sick man, and no fit person for the post. Listening to every bazaar rumour and allowing it to prey on his nerves! The iron hand, that’s all these natives understand. They respect force and despise weakness. “I do not punish men for telling me the truth” - Bah! I’d have known how to treat any damned nigger who had the impertinence to talk to me like that! To listen to that sort of inflammatory stuff is just to encourage them.’
Mr Barton would have found himself in agreement with Honoria Lawrence, though not in the same spirit, when she had written of her husband almost five years previously: ‘If the new doctrine holds that sympathy with a people unfits a man to rule them, then indeed Sir Henry shows himself unfit for his position.’ In Mr Barton’s opinion, Sir Henry was entirely unfit, but as he had no desire to offend so notable a person, he had kept a guard upon his tongue excepting before his wife.
They had both attended several other functions at the Residency, and though Mr Barton had had no further private conversation with the Chief Commissioner of Oudh, Winter had struck up a friendship with a Mrs Daly who had been acting as hostess and housekeeper for Sir Henry.
Mrs Daly, her little son, and her husband Captain Harry Daly, who had just been appointed to command of the Corps of Guides, were staying as guests at the Residency, and Mrs Daly had temporarily taken on the management of the vast, scantily furnished house. She had taken a great fancy to young Mrs Barton, and a few days before her departure with her husband and child to Hoti Mardan on the North-West Frontier, where the Guides were stationed, she had asked if she might invite Winter to spend a few nights at the Residency.
Conway had offered no objection, since it had occurred to him that his wife’s absence would provide an excellent opportunity to arrange a few entertainments of his own at the Casa de Ballesteros. He had therefore given the scheme his cordial approval, and having seen Winter off to the Residency, had settled down with a large glass of brandy to plan a week of pleasurable and unrestricted amusement.
33
The Lucknow Residency was a large, three-storeyed building whose deep verandahs and pillared porticos looked out over the beautiful city and the winding river. It stood on high ground, among green lawns and gardens full of roses and flowering trees that held at bay an area of crowding, crowded buildings that surrounded and pressed about it, and which housed a numberless horde of unemployed musicians, entertainers and other humble hangers-on of the vanished court of Wajid Ali Shah, last King of Oudh.
‘Sir Henry does what he can for them,’ Mrs Daly told Winter, walking with her guest in the gardens in the cool of the evening, ‘though I do not think it can be easy. He cannot give them all employment. But he is always so ready to listen to anyone who asks for help, and to give any aid he can. I think a good deal of it comes from his own pocket, and I do not believe that there can be a kinder or more truly charitable man to be met with anywhere. Harry - my husband - says that already he has done more than anyone thought possible towards tranquillizing the province, for he is seeing that the promised pensions are paid, and has done much towards pacifying the bad feeling among the shopkeepers and tradesmen in Lucknow. But I believe it to be the ex-King’s army that is providing the main source of anxiety. Harry says that Sir Henry had hoped to enlist them in the Military Police or the local corps, but they say that they have eaten the King’s salt and will eat no other’s. But he does not despair. He has been holding a great many Durbars, you know, where the nobles and landowners may state their complaints freely so that he may do what he can to remedy them. I do not believe he ever sleeps!’
Winter had been happier during these past few days than she had been for months past. The relief of being free of Conway’s society was itself immeasurable, and she had been charmed by the atmosphere that prevailed at the Residency, and the casualness and complete lack of ceremony shown by its host.
‘Harry and I had to procure a great deal of furniture and fittings for the house,’ confided Mrs Daly, ‘for Sir Henry declared that he had no more than a single knife and fork to his name. He cannot be bothered with such minor details and leaves them to anyone who will attend to them for him. And I never know how many guests to expect. He will ask me to send out cards for a party of fifteen, and an hour before dinner George Lawrence will come in and tell me that his uncle has invited another twenty, and clean forgotten to mention it! And then there are always the unexpected visitors.’
One of these unexpected visitors walked in on a breakfast-party on the last day but one of Winter’s stay.
Breakfast at the Residency was a long-drawn-out and pleasant meal, lasting from ten o’clock until twelve, and attended on this occasion (in addition to Sir Henry and his nephew George, the Dalys and Winter) by a Colonel Edwards, a Mr Christian, Commissioner of Sitapur, and a Dr Ogilvie. They had been animatedly discussing the rival merits of Buddha and Confucius as religious teachers, when a caller had been announced, and Captain Daly had looked up and jumped to his feet:
‘Alex - by all that’s wonderful!’
Winter had been peeling an orange and her hands were suddenly still. As still as her heart. Alex’s voice spoke behind her:
‘Hello, Harry; I hadn’t heard you were here. I hope you may forgive me for walking in on you like this, Sir Henry? I arrived an hour or so ago, but Mr Barton cannot see me until later, so I thought—’
‘You know that you need no apology for walking in on me at any hour, Alex,’ said Sir Henry, and smiled.
Winter laid the orange down very carefully on her plate and turned slowly, but Alex was not looking at her. He was not even aware that she was present. He was looking at his old chief, and Winter was seized by a helpless, foolish pang of pur
e jealousy. A resentment, as keen as it was ridiculous, because neither she nor any woman would ever be able to bring that look to Alex’s face - or to any man’s face.
Sir Henry pushed away his plate and stood up to grip Alex’s hand, and Captain Daly beckoned to a khidmatgar to bring another chair.
‘Had any breakfast?’ inquired Sir Henry.
‘At about five o’clock this morning, sir.’
‘Then you can do with another one now. Hazri lao Sahib kirwasti, Ahmed Ali. What are you doing in Lucknow, Alex?’
‘The Commissioner sent for me, sir.’
Alex’s voice was entirely expressionless, but Sir Henry regarded him with a twinkling eye in which there was a good deal of comprehension: ‘Called up to explain yourself, eh? What high-handed action have you been taking this time without consulting the higher authorities?’
Alex laughed. ‘Something like that. You are too acute, sir.’
‘And entirely mannerless, for I have not yet made you known to my guests. But then I think you know all of them except Dr Ogilvie. Mrs Barton is staying with us for a few days to keep Mrs Daly company.’
Alex looked round with a sudden startled frown in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Barton; I did not see you were here. Hullo, Mrs Daly. It’s good to see you again. How do you do, sir - no, I do not think we have met.’
‘How long will you be staying?’ inquired Sir Henry.
‘Not above a day, I imagine, sir. It depends on the Commissioner, but I hope to start back before dawn tomorrow. This is no time to be—’
He bit back the sentence, and his mouth shut hard as though he were annoyed with himself for being betrayed into an unguarded statement. But the thought was entirely clear. This was no time to be dragged away from Lunjore to explain some official peccadillo in person to its absent Commissioner.