Hervey was confident of his stomach, but the notion of lawlessness on a regimented scale was wholly alien to him. ‘How many are they?’
‘The estimates are varied, but the best formulations are probably those of the Bengal office, which put the number of horse at twenty-five thousand. That is the figure which their spies estimated to have assembled at the Dasahara festival five years ago — the most reliable intelligence in our possession, if a little dated.’
‘And all these may operate as one body, with effect?’ asked Hervey, incredulous, for he knew that no such body of European cavalry had manoeuvred to advantage during his service.
‘Again, so little is known,’ said the collector, frowning. ‘Captain Sydenham, from the Bengal office, has estimated that only some six or seven thousand may be counted truly effective cavalry.’ He shrugged. ‘But there is a saying here: “What cares the ass or the bullock whether his load be made of flowers?” It matters little to a ryot whether the cavalry that has ravaged him is counted effective or ineffective.’
‘No, of course,’ Hervey agreed, ‘but it matters more if some operation to extirpate the menace is being contemplated.’
The collector sighed and nodded. ‘Forgive me. Indeed it does. I am too distressed at the knowledge of what these demons have done. That and the certain knowledge that there will be no concerted campaign of extirpation.’
Hervey wished profoundly that he might reassure him on that point: the duke, for sure, would not sit idly by once he was appointed to Fort William. ‘What does this incursion portend in the wider sense?’
‘Hah!’ said the collector, getting up and pouring yet another glass. ‘That is the very question which should most be exercising the minds of those at Fort St George and Fort William — ay, and in Bombay Castle too. There must be some great concerted action on the part of the three presidencies, else we shall never be able to continue our business unmolested. More immediately, I fear for the peace hereabouts since the Rajah of Nagpore has evidently been unable to prevent Bikhu Sayed from traversing his lands, and this will put Chintal in a most perilous position — squeezed by the nizam to their south and west, and by the Pindarees to their north and east. It bodes ill for trade along the Godavari river if Chintal declines into chaos.’
Tempting though it was to question him directly on Chintal, Hervey held himself in check, though they sat talking for an hour before the collector thought fit to retire. Hervey penned a brief note for Henry Locke and hoped he would return before dawn. When he turned in, he lay for a full half-hour trying to think how Somervile’s estimate might affect his mission. But beyond the obvious conclusion that it could not make things easier, he was at a loss. Perhaps Bazzard in Calcutta would have a clearer picture, though he was inclined to think not, for Colonel Grant had seemed to suggest he would be little more than a facilitator, a clearing office. Was that why Selden was so useful as a point of contact in Chintal? Not for the first time he began to feel the want of that fuller exposition which Grant had said was not necessary.
There were just the remains of the night’s chill in the air as dawn came to Guntoor. The first rays of the sun were quick to pick out the whitened, single-storey residences of the civil lines, the verandahs, where sat the chowkidars, becoming for a time darker pools as a consequence. Smoke was already rising from stoves and ovens behind each residence as bearers prepared chota hazree — tea and poori, or chapatti perhaps. The collector’s household had risen earlier this morning, however, and after a fuller breakfast — eggs and cold beef — Somervile, Hervey and Locke were now gathered in the carriage drive at the front. Birds sang in every quarter — not as many as in Horningsham, but shriller, although a bulbul was giving out its melodious, liquid call from deep inside a leafy shrub. A pair of night herons flapped overhead, from the direction of the river, their distinctive ‘kwaark, kwaark’ more than ever importunate in the quiet of the dawn. Hervey breathed deep, in both senses, eager to begin.
A minute or so later and the sound of hooves on hard earth quickened him even more. Wiry little horses, country-breds, not Arabs, led by equally wiry syces, came up the carriage drive in a restive jog-trot. There had been some heat in Jessye’s leg after their ride yesterday and Hervey had told Johnson that she was to have box-rest for a day or so. These country-breds looked handy enough, however, and he had sufficient respect for the collector’s eye for horses to trust that he would have under him an honest gelding. As the three mounted, each with the help of as many syces — one holding the bridle, one on the offside pulling down the stirrup leather, and the third with palm on knee in lieu of a mounting block — there arrived from the cantonment the patrol that was to determine whether the Pindarees’ incursion was the precursor of another fierce predation, or whether it had been a single freebooting action. And as the Godavari river was to be the limit of their reconnaissance, they carried with them — or, rather, bullock carts would follow with — camp stores and provisions for a week’s essay.
Had the officer commanding the cavalry troop been attired according to the regulations, he would have looked more magnificent than Hervey himself on a full-dress parade, for the Madras Light Cavalry’s uniform was a French-blue hussar jacket, with silver lace across the chest, sky-blue overalls and a Greek helmet with a shoulder-length, white horsehair plume. But this morning, as most days, the officer (as his troopers) wore the same shako as Hervey had at Waterloo, but instead of a black oilskin cover it had one of buff cotton with a piece of cloth to shield the neck from the sun. The officer saluted the party from the civil lines eagerly with his sword — the straightpattern sabre, unlike Hervey’s. ‘Cornet Templer, sir,’ he said, smiling.
‘Yes, Mr Templer,’ replied the collector; ‘I am not likely to forget. I shall not wager my mare against yours quite so soon again, unless I find a more talented jockey than that jackanapes who calls himself your lieutenant! You should take her to Madras: she will win you a small fortune.’
Cornet Templer looked not much more than a boy. His tanned face was framed by curls the colour of autumn corn, and it now seemed to be but one large smile. Hervey took to him at once, for his liveliness was infectious, his eagerness admirable. Just the sort of cornet he would have wanted for his own troop — a clean young Englishman. There was a deal of handshaking following the saluting. Lieutenant of Marines Henry Locke took to the cornet too, though, as his seat was less certain than once it might have been, it was not without some difficulty that he managed to press his mount to within handshaking distance. Cornet Templer looked him straight in the eye, seeming not to see any disfigurement. And that to Locke — more than Hervey or even Peto might have supposed — meant a very great deal.
There was one more introduction to effect. Cornet Templer turned his head towards his troop. ‘Subedar, sahib,’ he called, still smiling. A tall Madrasi, dressed almost identically to Templer, jogged up on his big gelding — an animal in better condition than Hervey had yet seen in the country. ‘Gentlemen, this is Subedar Thangraj. He will not permit us to get into too much trouble.’
Subedar Thangraj straightened his back still further, and saluted high, almost touching the crown of his shako. ‘Captain, sahib, it is an honour to meet with one who has fought at the great battle of Waterloo,’ he said in clear, confident English, looking directly, and with much solemnity, at Hervey.
‘Thank you, Subedar sahib,’ he replied formally, though astonished that these details should already be known to this native officer — and that the man should be so wholly confident of recognizing to whom the distinction applied. But he was puzzled by the rank. ‘Templer, you said “Subedar”; I understood that in the cavalry the rank is “Rissaldar”.’
‘In the armies of Bombay and Bengal, yes sir, but not in Madras.’
‘And is this so for the other ranks?’
‘It is. All our private men are sepoys, not sowars.’
‘How so?’ asked Hervey, vexed with himself for being unaware that there should be this difference.
‘Quite so,’ smiled Hervey, recognizing the propriety. ‘Is there very much difference in other respects between the three armies?’
‘Indeed there is, though I have not been in the country long enough to see at first hand. But when we make camp tonight I shall be glad to tell you what I know.’
There was evidently more to Cornet Templer than his broad, easy smile — and Hervey liked him even better for it.
When all were satisfied that the necessary salutations had been made, Cornet Templer asked the collector for leave to begin the patrol.
Somervile nodded.
‘Walk-march please, Subedar sahib,’ he called. It seemed to Hervey more a friendly invitation than a command.
‘Very good, sahib,’ replied the subedar, who barked the orders in turn to the patrol, but in a tongue Hervey did not recognize. The sepoys straightened their backs once more and the column moved off in a cloud of dust fetlock-high, out of the civil lines and on to the wide palmyra avenue that led directly to the high road north to the Krishna river — and thence, if they were to remain on it rather than branching north-east (the latter being their intention), to the Rajah of Chintal’s capital at Chintalpore.
Dust rose higher as they settled to a brisk working trot, kicked up by the more extravagant action of one or two of the horses, fresh and eager to stretch their legs after a night in standing-stalls. The dust quickly reached his nostrils, yet it was not wholly unwelcome, for it seemed no different from the spices to which he was becoming accustomed. Indeed, he was already of a mind that this taste of baked earth was rather the essence of India, like the light which transformed the way he saw things, or the heat at midday, as if hands were touching him. It was not possible, even momentarily, to be insensate in this land, for the presents to each and every sense were so potent as to be almost compelling. Already he had observed that no bird had anything but the gaudiest plumage. Not even an insect concealed itself by drab colour. No noise was restrained, no taste — in either sense — was mild. No smell was anything but pungent, no belief incredible, no notion too outlandish. And all this within the civil lines of the Company’s very regular station at Guntoor. Now he would see Hindoostan — the country beyond the chunam and the chintz, beyond the exaggerated English manners of the Company’s officials and their liveried servants. He would see it just as he had wanted to see Ireland beyond the Pale, a year and a half ago. The experience of native Ireland had taught him, however, that although he might cross such a divide physically, to do so with his heart spelled ruin. He would be on his guard.
But home thoughts were with him yet as they jogged past pretty bungalows (the word new to him), whose white fences and trim gardens would not have been out of place in Sussex. ‘Which part of England are you come from?’ he asked, Cornet Templer now having drawn alongside him.
‘I don’t call any part home, sir,’ replied Templer, still smiling; ‘I spent three terms at Harrow but went thence to Addiscombe, for I was first meant for the Company’s sappers. My people are from Wicklow.’
So much for his instinct for people, thought Hervey — English indeed! They talked freely, however, especially of Addiscombe (for Hervey had little knowledge of the Company’s military academy), until, leaving the town limits, Templer excused himself to go forward to attend to some detail with the point-men.
Hervey rode thereafter with Locke and the collector, several yards off to the flank in order to avoid the dust. They wore mixed dress, with overalls of light canvas made up for them a day or so before in Guntoor, and their sword belts were simple affairs with snakefastening and no sash. Locke wore a marine man’s hat of black glazed leather, with a neck shield pinned to it, and Hervey wore his own shako with a cream cover and neck flap — like Templer and his men. But neither of them had on a tunic of appreciably martial stamp. Hervey’s was a coat of hunting length, the same colour as his shako, and he wore a yellow silk stock. Locke had on a cutaway of the same weight of cotton, but of a dusty pink colour, together with a white stock and his treasured gorget. Despite this mixture, however, neither man could have appeared to an onlooker as anything other than military, whereas nothing could have been further from the case with the collector, whose black coat made no concession to what Hervey supposed would soon be the excessive heat of the day — though his wide-brimmed straw hat would provide considerably greater protection from the sun than the short peak of Hervey’s shako or the pulled-up brim of Locke’s headdress.
‘It seems a distant cry from trade, this,’ smiled Hervey.
‘Then let me disabuse you, sir, of any notion that trade is what the Company is about nowadays. At first, yes — in Queen Elizabeth’s day. Then it was truly a company of merchants trading spices from the east. It began to change with King Charles’s Braganza dowry — Bombay — and then later when that enfeebled Mughal Shah Alam made the Company his dewan — his administrator — for the Bengal revenues. But this much you surely know?’
Hervey was relieved that the collector had some appetite for conversation, even at this hour, for Locke was bearing the signs of little sleep, promising to be no sort of companion at all. ‘I have not heard it stated so definitively, sir.’ He was not without the art of flattery in a good cause.
The collector was more than happy to continue, definitively. ‘Mr Pitt’s India Act established the Board of Control. Doubtless he would have preferred to appropriate the Company lock, stock and barrel, but that would have put too much patronage in his hands for the Whigs to stomach. It was a half-baked scheme, for it gave no-one the necessary freedom to act. And it made worse the differences between the three presidencies. Madras and Bombay were all but pursuing contrary policies towards Mysore at one juncture.’
Hervey pressed him to more as he leaned forward to remove a monstrous horsefly from his gelding’s ear.
‘The amending act three years ago has done much to tidy things up — the president of the Board now has a seat in the cabinet and such like — but it spells the end for the Company. Of that I’m sure. We are in all effects a department of state even at the present, and it will not be long, in my judgement, before parliament sees fit to wind up all trading interests. What worries me, Captain Hervey, is that our new administrators are becoming too imperious in their dealings with the country powers and with the natives in the presidencies. Warren Hastings knew the continent, you see, from his engagement with trade. The new breed does not.’
Hervey thanked him for his candid opinion.
The collector made light of it. ‘But I heard you asking Templer if there is any difference between the armies of the three presidencies.’
‘Yes; he said he would explain when we made camp tonight.’
‘He will indeed, but I shall first tell you the root of those differences.’ He flicked his whip against his mare’s quarters, she having become disunited. ‘You would say that there is a difference in the fighting qualities of men from the various parts of our own islands, would you not? You would no doubt say that the Scotchman is a fearsome soldier, but without his officers he is at a loss; that the man from East Anglia is steadfast in adversity and so on. But these are but fine shades in men whose red coats make of them all fine soldiers. Here things are a matter of greater extremes — as they are in all things. From a military point of view there is no doubt that the Rajpoots of northern India are the noblest, the finest of the races. The Rajpoot is tall and well-built, clean-limbed. He may not marry a woman who is not of a Rajpoot family. Where you find him — in the Bombay regiments — he is peerless.’
Hervey nodded in appreciation. ‘Then I hope I shall soon meet them.’
‘Not this side of the Nerbudda river, I think,’ replied the collector, shaking his head. ‘You shall have to go to what is Hindoostan proper — to the north of the Nerbudda. But that is as m
ay be. The Bombay presidency’s forces are well-tried: that is the material point. And, incidentally, what a city Bombay is, Captain Hervey! You would consider it alone worth the journey to see what its women will dare in the matter of dress! Nowhere on earth will you see any more colourful sight than a Parsi girl — brilliant beyond measure!’
Hervey and Locke were all attention.
‘A Bombay street is as splendid and lively a sight as a Calcutta one is ugly and dispiriting.’
‘I think you have no very great regard for the Bengali, sir?’
‘Not in the main. He’s feeble and effete beyond measure. He holds personal cowardice to be no disgrace. Do you know of any other race in the world to which that accusation might be directed?’
‘Which leaves the soldiers of the presidency of Madras,’ said Hervey, smiling.
The collector sighed. ‘The glories of the ancient Telinga kingdoms are long past, and — it must be said — their martial spirit. When the French occupied the Karnatic, and when Clive was campaigning in Mysore, the Telinga fought with ferocity and intelligence.’ He touched his mare’s flank again with the whip as she fell back half a length. ‘But the Madrasi now is a man of peace, a better servant than a soldier. The Telinga makes a better-looking sepoy, being of superior physique, but he possesses on the whole less stamina than the Tamil. The Tamil can exhibit fine fighting qualities, mark you: Subedar Thangraj overcame more than a dozen mutineers at Vellore with only a clubbed carbine.’
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