The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  He reckoned their work here could be done in a day – two at most. There was of course advantage in seeing the rajah, but staying a ‘guest’ at Madkerry indefinitely would bring none worth the effort. He might send patrols along the roads north, west and south, but would they bring him any vital intelligence? All three, no doubt, had their defiles and defensible places. It was the last mile or so of each where the fighting, if it came to it, would be decisive. How did these debouch onto the plateau? Where would they be fortified – where indeed were they fortified – and how might they be overcome? These were not excessive questions. No, he wished to return to Madras as soon as may be, for the squadrons must arrive at any moment. In truth, too, there was Kezia.

  He decided he’d have St Alban make a ‘grand tour’ of the city, sketching in the military fashion but with the addition of figures to give a harmless impression, while he himself reconnoitred the roads under pretext of ornithology (he had with him Pennant’s Indian Zoology, which he supposed might be useful). Madkerry was no great size, the plateau not more than three miles north to south, and five east to west, and the hills – in the main, little more than enlarged mounds – were excellent points of vantage. As long as they were not delayed by ‘hospitality’, he thought it would be accomplished by evening.

  In fact by four o’clock he was finished, having spied out the avians of all three approaches – north, west and finally south. He’d said nothing to Serjeant Acton of his purpose, but he hadn’t needed to. An NCO did what he was bid, but one of Acton’s acuity did so with an enquiring mind. All it had taken was the conditional – ‘Sar’nt Acton, if … how would …’

  Once back at the guesthouse, having fallen out Acton to swim, he’d washed away the day’s dust and taken his ease outside in a cane chair to await St Alban’s return. A khitmagar brought tea and sweetmeats, and Johnson appeared soon afterwards from the horse lines.

  ‘She ’ad a nasty leech on ’er gash, Minnie, Colonel, but that Chelli’s good. ’E ’ad it off sharp.’

  Hervey had already marked out Chelli as a fine syce. But a leech? ‘I can’t think how that could be. I’m sure we stood by no water for long. A big leech, was it?’

  ‘It’d ’ad a fair belly full, but Chelli put some pomegranate on, so it should be all right.’

  ‘Permanganate, I hope. I’ll come and see myself later.’

  ‘She looks tired. Did you go far, Colonel? An’ I’m sure ’e said it were pomegranate.’

  ‘Ten miles or so, but at no pace. Permanganate – Mr Gaskoin began using it at Hounslow. You recall, surely?’

  Johnson shook his head, as if it were entirely without consequence. ‘I ’ad a good look round while you were gone.’ He picked up Hervey’s swordbelt and pulled out the sabre halfway. ‘I’ll run over t’blade afore stables.’

  Hervey himself, as any officer, kept his side-arms clean in the field, but if there was to be ceremony tomorrow … ‘Thank you. At what did you have a good look?’

  ‘I went in t’bazaar. They’d some nice things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Nice ivory things, an’ gold.’

  ‘At a good price, d’ye think?’

  ‘I reckon I could’ve ’ad a good ’aggle.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow then. Except there mayn’t be time.’

  ‘An’ I went in t’fort as well.’

  ‘You went inside? There was no difficulty entering?’

  ‘None at all. It’s not like a real fort – well, it is really, but I mean there aren’t soldiers and guns everywhere. T’rajah’s ’ouse didn’t look much. I wouldn’t call it a palace. There’s a bazaar there an’ all.’

  ‘Doubtless they can clear out the stalls when necessary. Was that all?’

  Johnson smiled ever so slightly – the smile that Hervey knew portended some disclosure, if not necessarily of great remark. ‘There were a door open in one o’ t’buildings, an’ so I ’ad a good look inside.’

  Hervey raised an eyebrow, for although he’d many a time profited from Johnson’s ‘foraging’, it did not always recognize the Articles of War. ‘On the prog, were you, Corporal Johnson?’

  (Feigned indignation): ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Well, it were a great big forge, but t’fire weren’t lit an’ there were nob’dy there. But it were full o’ these – thousands of ’em.’

  He handed over his find.

  Hervey stiffened.

  ‘An’ there were another shed full of ’em an’ all.’

  He gave him one, twice the size.

  Hervey shook his head. ‘Caltrops – for foot and hoof. I suppose the obvious weapon.’

  The Coorgs could scatter them, spring an ambush and then slip away. No infantry or cavalry would pursue hard through ground sown with caltrops. Any advance would be slowed to a crawl, since all the roads were but continuous defiles. They’d be days to Madkerry rather than hours.

  ‘This is trouble indeed, Corp’l Johnson. But I’m glad to know of it. Well done.’

  St Alban’s field sketching was admirable too, and clever – ingeniously disguised, with annotations for colour and the like, as if preliminaries for the brush, and details which were of practical military use recorded in a very recondite Greek script. Together with his own notes they made for a very satisfactory reconnaissance.

  ‘I see no reason, frankly, to visit here any longer. We have enough; any more would be speculative. And I confess I feel unease about being here on sufferance.’

  ‘Break camp this evening, Colonel?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell the vakeel it’s not fitting to await indefinitely – that I take no offence but the Company’s business compels me to leave. The presents shall be given into the rajah’s hand at a later date.’

  St Alban nodded. ‘A warning order?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘No, not till morning. I’d rather bear the delay than risk discovery … Tell me, did anything appear strange to you as you rode today?’

  ‘No, Colonel; I found everything most unremarkable – like Bangalore and Kushalnagar, or any other place we’ve come.’

  ‘Quite. I’d expected a certain … edge.’

  ‘You think the stories of the rajah’s excesses are unfounded?’

  ‘No; they’re from too many and different sources to dismiss.’

  ‘Perhaps the rajah is careful in his excesses.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. But agreeable though this place is – very agreeable, a beautiful country to be sure – I find it stranger than it ought to be. I feel like Jack come up the beanstalk.’

  St Alban smiled. ‘The story has a happy ending, as I recall – well, a satisfactory one for Jack at least?’

  Hervey laughed. ‘Come; I want to take a turn round the camp.’

  He spent a little time with the syces and bearers, as he took his turn, and with the two sowars, and his dragoons. They’d made themselves comfortable. There was good water nearby, and the horses had fed well on corn and pulses, but the sowars seemed unsettled. Afterwards Neale told him that some low-bred Mussulmans – Moplas, fisher folk from Malabar – had come earlier to sell salt cod, and that the women bared their legs to the knee.

  Hervey had seen them all about the city. Their women appeared to cause no offence to the Coorgs (and, indeed, he found their lithe, clean limbs pleasing), but Neale said his Deccanis were most prudish in such matters, and thought themselves insulted.

  ‘So they didn’t buy the fish?’

  Neale smiled. ‘They did buy the fish, and found it very good indeed, and that is probably why they’re discomposed. They’re a contrary lot, the Deccani rissalah, Colonel, but I greatly esteem them nonetheless. In a fight there’s none better. Though I wouldn’t say that to the Jats, of course.’

  Hervey smiled and shook his head. Comparison of the martial races was a perilous venture – especially with the martial races themselves. ‘I thought to ask if the rissaldar would eat with us when we return to Bangalore.’

 
; ‘That of course is most gracious, Colonel, but I venture to say he would find the honour too much.’

  ‘But you mess with your native officers from time to time, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It’s merely that he would feel it presumptuous to mess without the rissaldar-major.’

  ‘Very well; perhaps the rissaldar-major too.’

  Neale smiled apologetically. ‘The rissaldar-major would feel discomposed without the commandant.’

  ‘Then it will be something of a tamasha. I’ll say no more of it now, though. By the bye, I’m obliged to you for taking duty today.’

  Neale brought himself to attention. ‘With your leave, then, Colonel, I’ll attend on stables.’

  ‘I too.’

  St Alban was just finishing his own round of the horse lines as Hervey came up. ‘All serviceable, Colonel. One of the bat-horses is colicky, but they’ve drenched him with turps.’

  ‘Very well.’ Hervey thought a little longer … ‘St Alban, would you have Sar’nt Acton make the watch roster with the sowars taking the first and last.’

  ‘Of course, Colonel. You have a concern?’

  ‘Only a very little. It seems they’ve got themselves in a lather about the fish wives, and better that they take the easier watches than brood on it in the early hours. And I would wish for a fuller moon.’

  ‘You have a concern for the fish folk too?’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘I’ll see that Acton arranges things – and torches.’

  They messed together, the three of them, when all heat had gone from the day – not that it had been oppressive – and before unwelcome winged visitors became too troublesome. And they dined as if at Fort St George, with spotless-white table cloth, polished silver, fine china and glass, but every dish spiced, even the confections. Then again in the English manner, they rose to take their ease while khitmagars cleared the table and removed the cloth for the desserts – nuts, candied fruit, port much fortified, though Hervey drank only moderately, and Neale almost not at all.

  ‘I have some letters to attend to,’ he said, rising suddenly. ‘Breakfast at seven, then, gentlemen, and we’ll decide the day.’

  The two rose and bid him good night, then took up a pack of cards. They were still playing cribbage when just after midnight Corporal Johnson appeared.

  ‘Mr St Alban, sir, there’s two ’Indoos wants to see t’colonel. They says it’s real serious, and they’re proper people – grand, I mean. Speak English proper. One’s a woman.’

  Neale and St Alban were on their feet at once, reaching for their swordbelts.

  ‘Just two – without attendants or any other?’

  ‘As best I can make out, sir. Corporal White’s with ’em. We was just ’avin’ some tea. They sound worried.’

  ‘Better receive them in here, I think,’ suggested Neale.

  St Alban nodded. ‘Bring them in, if you please, Corporal Johnson. Then tell Corporal White to take a turn about the camp while you stand sentry.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘English-speaking: means nothing definite,’ said Neale as Johnson scuttled out. ‘They could be Bombay merchants even, though strange if the woman speaks it too. But no one would steal into our lines at midnight without pressing cause.’

  St Alban couldn’t help but marvel at the rich variety of his military life: incipient revolution in a great port of empire one minute, and in the next (with, true, the interval of a year) a midnight tryst the far side of the world. Parliament would be fearful anticlimax …

  Johnson returned. ‘The visitors, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal.’

  The light in the dining room wasn’t strong, but it was evident at once that the visitors were high-born, not merchants.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, bowing. He would give away as little as possible, but enough to satisfy the demands of courtesy. ‘I am Lieutenant St Alban, adjutant to Colonel Hervey, whom I understand you wish to see.’

  The man returned the bow. The woman stood still behind him, her head covered with the throw of her sari.

  ‘Good evening, Mr St Alban. I am Chinnah Buswa, noble of Coorg and high official at the palace. This is my wife, Deewah Amajee, sister of the rajah.’

  St Alban bowed again. If the rajah had but the one sister, then it must be she who had the claim to be the rightful ruler of Coorg, if her uncle had not claimed – usurped – the throne in his regency. ‘This is Mr Neale, of the Honourable East India Company’s army.’

  The two acknowledged with an inclination of the head. The deewah evidently did understand English – or some at least – and she now uncovered her head to stand proud.

  She was a striking woman of about thirty – tall for an Indian, slim and lighter skinned than most they’d seen here so far. Her husband was older – clean-shaven, darker skinned than she, and but an inch taller. He had the bearing of nobility, but he too had the face of anxiety.

  St Alban looked directly at the deewah. ‘What may we do for you, your highness?’

  She looked at her husband.

  He nodded, as if acknowledging her permission to speak. ‘We request an audience of Colonel Hervey, who is representative of His Majesty King William, is he not?’

  St Alban decided that the finer points could be deferred. ‘He is. May I ask the reason, huzoor … given the lateness of the hour?’

  Chinnah looked at the deewah again … ‘Mr St Alban, my wife’s honour is in danger. Our lives are in danger. We seek the protection of His Majesty King William.’

  St Alban was momentarily taken aback – until the instincts that had commended him to Hervey in the first place took rein. ‘I assure you, you need have no fear. You are in our protection here. Some refreshment …?’

  Quite how effective that protection might be, if whoever it was that threatened honour and life were to challenge it, was another matter, but they expressed themselves grateful, while refusing the offer of refreshment.

  ‘Sit, please, while I go and speak to Colonel Hervey. Mr Neale will give you every assistance.’

  He went as quietly as he could, not wanting to rouse the guesthouse’s servants.

  Hervey had barred his door, however (and the windows, with their entry from the balcony), and St Alban had to knock louder than he’d have liked.

  When the door opened he found Hervey still booted.

  ‘Colonel, the rajah’s sister and her husband are here. They want to claim our protection. They say their lives are in danger.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, I’m afraid, Colonel.’

  ‘Well, it can only be from the one man, else why ask our protection. You’re sure they are who they say they are?’

  St Alban shook his head. ‘I’ve no way of knowing, but there’s something in their bearing that suggests it. They’re certainly dressed very well.’

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  He put on his jacket and fastened on his swordbelt, then nodded. ‘Lead on.’

  The two stood as he entered the room.

  ‘Good evening, your highness … and—’

  ‘I am Chinnah Buswa, Colonel.’

  He spoke with dignity, and his features were those of an Indian of high caste.

  Hervey bowed. ‘These are my trusted officers. You may speak in front of them as you would to me. Now tell me, if you please, the cause of this alarm.’

  The deewah spoke for the first time, and in a pleasing voice. ‘Colonel Hervey, I thank you for receiving us. I am conscious that you take us on trust.’ She removed a ring from her finger. ‘This was the birth ring given me by my father, Linga Rajah. I would that you keep it until we are in His Majesty’s dominions.’

  She placed it in his hand. Even in the dull light of the oil lamps the brilliance of the diamond – bigger than he’d ever seen – spoke to her claim. He said that such a device was not necessary, however, and gave it back to her, but bid them sit.

  The deewah bowed in evident
appreciation.

  Chinnah related their circumstances. The rajah had always been a boy, and then a man, of unchecked passions, he said, but of late these had become monstrous. He took unusual pleasure in killing – more than the sportsman’s proper game – and this, like the tiger that acquired the taste of human flesh, had now become like that very tiger, satisfied only with the spilling of human blood. Indeed, he said, and with manifest distaste, the rajah baited his tiger hunts with village boys instead of goats. He knew, he said, that it was a practice not unknown in Bengal, but there at least the rajahs would pay the villagers well for a boy, and the tiger rarely got his bait. But here, this rajah demanded rather than bought – demanded with menaces. He would force himself upon a village woman, then threaten to do the same to a daughter if a son were not given for the hunt. And he would let the tiger maul the boy – frequently to death – before shooting. He had thirteen wives already, but his appetite was unquenchable, and no man’s wife was safe, not even at court. He had murdered – there was no proof, but it could not be otherwise – every one of his cousins who might have claim on the throne.

  ‘There is no one safe, Colonel Hervey. I refused him ingress last week, when he came for my wife. Our days are numbered therefore. I ought then and there to have drawn my sword and had done with it.’

  Hervey remained silent for a while. ‘Where is the rajah now?’

  ‘At his hunting lodge at Virarajendrapet, about ten miles south of here, with his … wives. He went yesterday when he heard of your coming.’

  ‘What then is to stop you making for Mysore?’

  ‘I fear that in the unhappy state of affairs in Coorg, Colonel Hervey, my brother-in-law’s men would not allow us to pass into Mysore. Even if we were to take the forest tracks, which few know of but the ryots, I fear there would be a price on our heads that none could resist.’

  ‘You have made no preparations? You stand before me now intending to flee Coorg with but what you wear?’

  ‘Two of our most trusted servants stand ready with horses and what little gold we can carry. Were you to reject our request, we should have ridden before daylight, even though it would avail us nothing, for what else might we do but wait to be taken like sheep?’