‘Colonel,’ they replied, almost in unison.
‘Very well. I’ll take a turn out tomorrow. Carry on.’
They saluted sharply as he strode away.
‘Well, Fred,’ said Gaskoin when Hervey turned the corner of the horse lines, ‘I fancy the colonel’s rightly content. Not a fault found.’
The RM took his hat off and wiped his brow. ‘They says it’s India and the prospect of action that’s cheered ’im so.’
‘Aye, that it must be.’
XV
Words of Advice
Earlier
‘THA SEES, ANNIE m’lass, there are good snakes ’n’ bad snakes. And the good’ns, when they bite thee, kill thee quick, and the bad’ns take days. One of ’em, what they call a Braminee cobra, it’s so good it’ll kill thee in a few hours.’
Annie looked increasingly uncomfortable. She’d seen adders on the heath at Hounslow, but they weren’t a bother. These Indian snakes by all accounts (but principally Corporal Johnson’s) were altogether different – evil things; cunning and spiteful. She’d searched her bedroom top to bottom that first night, fearful of what Johnson had told her, and slept fitfully under the mosquito net, though it wasn’t the season for too much annoyance from that biting tribe – just hoping it would keep out anything ‘slithersome’ that might take a fancy to sharing her bed. Then when she’d got up that morning, when the dressing-boy brought her tea she had him beat about the room, for Johnson had told her that snakes couldn’t abide noise, except for a flute, which he couldn’t understand, because Indian flutes always made a terrible racket.
‘What tha’s got to do, Annie, is get a mongoose. They knows ’ow to catch snakes – well, ’ow to kill ’em. They don’t ’alf go for ’em – back o’ their necks, quick as owt tha’s ever seen. I ’ad one when we were ’ere before. Well, I ’ad two, but t’first were frightened, so I got rid of it.’
He had indeed, and at a loss, which vexed him still – and the more so because, as Hervey then pointed out, a mongoose that was frightened of snakes was surely such a curiosity as to have commanded a high price among the snake-charmers. They were always keen to add novelty to their displays.
‘But they’re not as friendly as ferrets. Ferrets are better company.’
Annie was now confused; did she want a companion or a bodyguard? ‘Mrs Hervey says that we shall be quite safe here in this house because of all the steps up to it, and that the chowkidar and the snake-catcher will be outside all the time.’
This put Johnson on the spot somewhat, for he didn’t want to contradict the wife of the commanding officer, because that was like contradicting the commanding officer himself. Well, worse really, because you could always have your say with the commanding officer, if it was ‘with respect, Colonel’, but you couldn’t really with the commanding officer’s wife – or lady, as he was meant to say; and he was getting on so well with Mrs Hervey these days; she actually seemed to like him, whereas before, it always seemed as if she didn’t. And this house they were in – the commanding officer’s residence – a palace, really, wasn’t like the sort they’d had in Bengal. It was all marble and fine things …
‘Well, Annie, Mrs ’Ervey’s right – course she is – she’s been in India before an’ all – but … What I mean is, what if one gets in when t’chowkidar’s not looking – at night, say? It’s just that it’d be better to be on t’safe side.’
Annie said she’d think about it, and perhaps ask Serjeant and Mrs Stray what they were going to do. ‘Mr St Alban came this morning and said he’d seen six elephants already.’
‘Oh, aye, tha’ll see lots o’ elephants, Annie. Best to go down t’river of an evenin’ an’ see ’em washing.’
‘Mr St Alban said he’d arrange for me to have a ride on one.’
‘Did ’e? ’E’s a good man, Mr St Alban. ’E must’ve taken a fancy to thee, Annie.’
She blushed.
‘But ’e’s a good man, Mr St Alban. Colonel ’Ervey were right worried ’e’d not want to come to India, and’d go to another regiment instead. And Captain Worsley ’n’ all – Colonel ’Ervey didn’t think ’e’d want to come because ’e was just married, and Mrs Worsley wouldn’t want to come, but Captain Worsley said ’e’d no more want to give up ’is troop just because they were going a long way away than ’e would if they were in a battle. Colonel ’Ervey liked that. An’ Mrs Worsley – ’er people are right rich, th’knows – she said she ’adn’t expected to marry an officer to take ’im from ’is duty. An’ Colonel ’Ervey ’ad really liked that, especially cos it meant that Mrs ’Ervey’d ’ave somebody to talk to.’
‘Mrs Hervey’s very nice to talk to,’ said Annie, wondering if she too would find someone to talk to – someone like her, for she couldn’t expect Mrs Hervey to talk to her much, not when she was a servant.
Johnson nodded. ‘An’ it’s not just Captain Worsley, but Captain Vanneck an’ Malet an’ all. There were only a few who didn’t want to come, an’ Colonel ’Ervey didn’t think much o’ them anyway and …’ He checked himself, realizing he was going too far with his confidences, even with Annie, who was like his little sister – except that he didn’t have a little sister; not one that he knew about at any rate. ‘Th’knows, Annie, t’only one ’e were really worried about were t’serjeant-major. ’E didn’t think ’e’d be able to come because of ’is children, an’ them o’ ’is wife. But Mr Collins – ’e’s t’quartermaster, what’s in charge o’ all t’bed spaces, ’n’ t’rations ’n’ such like – well ’e’s got t’serjeant-major a right good ’ouse wi’ lots o’ rooms. An’ Colonel ’Ervey says that on ’is pay ’n’ allowances ’ere ’e’ll be able to ’ave plenty o’ people to look after ’em.’
‘That’s good,’ said Annie. She’d only seen the serjeant-major a few times, and only once to speak to, but she thought he was a good man, and deserved to be looked after properly after everything that had happened to him.
Johnson thought he’d said enough now, and that he’d better bring the conversation back to something less perilous. ‘So, th’sees, Annie m’lass, th’can’t be too careful wi’ snakes.’
She nodded decidedly. However, she’d read a whole book about India during the passage, which she’d bought from her savings just before they sailed, but it said nothing at all about snakes. ‘I’m going to ask Serjeant and Mrs Stray about them this very afternoon, Johnno.’
She really liked Serjeant Stray. She’d liked Serjeant James, too, but he could be a bit fierce. And she liked Mrs Stray just as much as Mrs James. It was funny that they hadn’t wanted to come to India, but Serjeant James was a bit older than Mick (Serjeant Stray said she was to call him that whenever there wasn’t anyone looking, but she didn’t think she’d be able to), and he wanted to stay in Hounslow and keep a public house. But Serjeant Stray knew what he was about, right enough – and he’d only been a corporal six months ago. And Mrs Stray – well, she knew what she was about right enough too. They’d only been here a day, and already the servants were running round as if their lives depended on it (which, in a way, she supposed they did). Mrs Stray had never been to India before, but she knew exactly how to talk to them. She, on the other hand, had confused her poor ayah the first time she’d bid her do something (Yes: she, a servant, had her own servant, a very elegant lady in white muslin, and twice her age!): ‘Ayah, bring me a glass of toast and water, if you please,’ and the poor woman had crept to the door, and then come back again, looking anxious and confused, and begged, ‘What mistress tell? I don’t know,’ and she’d replied, ‘I said to bring me some toast and water, if you please, ayah.’ ‘Toast, water, I know very well, but mistress, tell “if you please”; I don’t know “if you please”.’
‘You know, Johnno, I don’t believe anyone has ever said “please” to her before. Isn’t that shameful?’
Johnson nodded slowly. ‘Annie, m’lass, the ’Indoos treat each other like muck, because it’s their religion, because they all say that when they die they
’ll come back better off and can treat them as ’ave been bad to ’em in t’same way, so it doesn’t matter to ’em.’
‘But we shouldn’t treat them like that, Johnno. I couldn’t go to church of a Sunday if I treated them like that.’
Johnson felt a little chastened. ‘No, I’m not saying we should, but th’doesn’t ’ave to worry about what words th’uses so much. They’ll know if th’doesn’t think they’re muck by t’tone o’ thi’ voice, an’ if th’smiles. I ’ad some right good pals afore – syces, bhistis, all sorts. They knows when th’doesn’t think tha’s too much above ’em. An’ they’ll all know that soon wi’ thee, Annie m’lass, because tha’s as honest as ever there was.’
Annie lowered her eyes. ‘Thank you, Johnno. I hope so.’
‘Well then, p’rhaps we can get one o’ these ’eathens to make us some more tea. There’s nowt for me to do now for an hour or so, an’ I’m going to take m’leisure ’ere.’ For the servants’ hall in the Hervey ‘palace’ was the best place he’d seen in many a year. ‘Koi hai!’
But he had to go and find the khitmagar for himself. It would take a day or so for him to discover – remember – that in Madras the language of the ’Indoo was Tamul, not what he’d learned in Bengal (Tamul and a lot of others as well, so that some couldn’t speak to each other except with their hands, or in English – or in the strange words that the English used in Bengal. Which was sometimes useful, to pretend no understanding at all).
* * *
‘HERVEY!’
The voice ever boomed, but in the great entrance of Government House it was fortissimo. Sowars of the Bodyguard and ancient bearers alike stood frozen at attention.
Hervey stood hatless in his tropicals – blue jacket (the King had granted a grace period), crossbelt, sword, and white trousers strapped under the boot – and returned the salutation with a click of his spurs.
‘Welcome, welcome!’
Somervile advanced with a broad smile and hand held out.
Hervey returned the smile, and with regard. His old friend had not reduced quite as much as Serjeant Stray, but his return to condition was marked nonetheless. The tropics ever suited him.
‘How is Kezia? The passage not too tiring, I trust.’
‘She is very well, thank you. The surgeon prescribed warm climes and sea air, and that is what we’ve had these past four months, save for the odd bit of weather. I believe she is quite restored.’
‘Capital!’
‘And Emma?’
‘You must have passed her on the road, for she’s gone to pay her first call on the station’s new lady.’
‘Ah, that will be most welcome.’
‘We returned from Mysore late last night, else the carriage would have been sent for you to dine – as it will this evening. But come: there’s much to talk about and I would have your opinion on Bangalore. I shrink from the word “mutiny”, but mutiny it was.’
‘I had account of its aftermath – the executions – from my riding-master.’
‘Dreadful, dreadful. But cruel necessity.’
They went to Somervile’s study, a high, airy room, facing north so that the governor could work at his papers without excessive intrusion of the sun. A huge punkah hung motionless, for although the thermometer stood at eighty-two, there was a light breeze off the sea, and the Guindy hills stood just high enough to catch it. Besides, eighty-two was not a temperature to trouble Somervile. It was not until ninety-five that he would consider removing his coat while at his desk; and at seventy he would have a fire in the grate. After months at sea, however, Hervey found his worsted a trifle hot, and looked forward to the visit of the tailor to knock up something in lighter twill for next morning (Collins said he’d engaged a contractor to make four hundred red cotton-duck jackets, and the same of white).
‘Nimbu pani?’
‘Shukriya.’ He took the glass. ‘I suppose, though, I should say “Amaam, tandri” instead.’
‘“Tandri” is enough. But they all know bazaar lingua.’
‘We tried to hire a munshee at the Cape, but none would come. They seemed to prefer the climate there.’ He took a good sip of his lemon water, and nodded. ‘I’d quite forgotten the delight of this.’
‘So had I. I tell you, I’m uncommonly glad to be back here; Emma too.’ He motioned to a chair. ‘But now, Bangalore. It seems the plan was to strike at midnight – on the 28th – and to that very morning there were no suspicions whatever. The mutineers were all followers of the Prophet, and it appears that if this …’ (he waved his hand, trying to find words of sufficient disdain) ‘coup de théâtre had been successful, others would have followed at half a dozen places – Hyderabad and Nagpore especially – and doubtless thereafter spread far and wide. However, that morning a jemadar of the Forty-eighth – the native infantry, that is – went to the major and told all. Inglis, the major, at once alerted the Dragoons, and the Sixty-second, and they rounded up the conspirators.’
Hervey nodded appreciatively.
‘The instigator was a grandee, however, which makes the whole affair rather more serious than military mutiny – serious though that indeed is. It was evidently a plot against our whole administration in Mysore. The great panjandrum, it appears, had enlisted a host of discharged sepoys and Pindaris, and these lay ready to join when the signal was given, when the gora log were murdered in their beds, and he’d then proclaim himself Nawaub of Bangalore.’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘Really, the arrant conceit of these rascals!’
Hervey simply raised an eyebrow.
‘Now, all that’s been very efficiently dealt with, but it was also learned that the Rajah of Coorg’s vakeel in Mysore had promised twelve thousand horse and seven of foot to be at Bangalore once he received word the mutiny had taken place. A great exaggeration of his strength, but …’
He stopped to take another long measure of his lemon water, and then waved a hand dismissively.
‘All the details are in the report of the board of inquiry. I’ll give you a copy. Suffice it to say that, by luck, the native artillery had left the city a day or so before for their practice ground, and so the two King’s regiments were able to scotch the coup before it began. The ring-leaders we blew from the guns, as you know, and shot a good few, but I commuted many more to transportation. The whole affair’s quite extraordinary. The sepoys had no grievance of any kind. Some of them had been years in the service – one of them nineteen – and several with fathers who’d died honourably in action. Now, you see what my next step must be?’
Hervey put down his glass. ‘I imagine to arrest – or at least depose – the Rajah of Coorg. It seemed to me at our dinner in London you were of a mind to do that anyway.’
Somervile nodded. ‘But in all truth, until this business I hadn’t settled on it – until I was certain for myself. I’d hoped we might, as it were, contain this wretched fellow’s excesses until Nature took its course. But as he’s plotted against the Company – and the nabobs will know it, you may be sure – he’ll now pay the price. It’s not, of course, my decision alone to take. I shall have to submit to Fort William, but I’m sure Bentinck will see it as I do. He was first in Madras, after all.’
‘And was recalled after the Vellore mutiny, was he not?’
‘That is true. But he was young and knew nothing of India – or, for that matter, of Indians.’
Hervey smiled. ‘The two are not the same?’
‘Of course they’re not the same.’
Hervey conceded. When first they’d met, Somervile had been Deputy Commissioner of Kistna and Collector of Guntoor district in the Northern Circars. There was no employee of the Honourable East India Company more respected by Indians of all classes than he; or indeed by the directors. Everyone said so. And yet no permanent governorship had been bestowed on him, for Somervile lacked political capital. It were better to be the son of a former prime minister and in possession of a courtesy title – as Bentinck in Calcutta – than to know the country, the la
nguages and the ways of its people as well as did his old friend.
To Hervey’s mind, Lord William Cavendish Bentinck hadn’t been much of a soldier either. As a major-general, he’d failed in Madras, and then again in Italy in the higher rank. He’d made himself prominent, however, as member for King’s Lynn in the Whig interest, and four years ago the Court of Directors in Leadenhall Street had suddenly imagined him useful. Anxious over renewal of the charter (due this very year), they’d appointed him to Bengal with instructions to put the Company’s operations into profit, thereby to impress the government. And it was certainly the case that he was a reforming governor, but economies were unpopular with the Company’s army, and it was not the best of times perhaps to be contemplating another campaign.
Then there was the question of Somervile’s own tenure at Fort St George – a year, perhaps; two at most? Hervey raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. ‘I fancy, in the circumstances, that you’re in something of a hurry?’
Somervile was always in a hurry. That, he would freely admit. ‘I could not allow the matter to rest until a successor’s appointed. The word is, by the way, that it’ll be Adam, once he’s settled affairs in the Ionians. Not only would it be indecently unjust to him, there’s no knowing the trouble this rajah will cause, not just in Mysore but further afield. John Clare at Bombay’s in agreement too. Besides, it’s why Leadenhall Street opened the coffers to send two more regiments here.’
‘John Clare?’
‘The Earl of Clare.’
‘I confess I’d not given Bombay any consideration. I’d thought it was Malcolm still. Clare in Suffolk, or in Ireland?’
‘Ireland. Is it of any moment?’
‘Not in the least, I suppose, but I thought it better to know than not. I never heard of him.’
‘Nor I, in truth, before he got Bombay. He was obliging in parliament of late.’
Hervey sighed.
‘But that’s of no concern to the present. We have to eject this usurping rajah, and as soon as may be – which, I’m assured, will be greeted with some relief in Coorg itself. A vile and loathsome creature he’s become.’
The Passage to India Page 20