Nizams Daughters mh-2

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Was it anyone of note?’ asked Hervey, though not, in truth, greatly exercised, for he was becoming accustomed to death in India.

  Selden raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. ‘Captain Steuben.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ gasped Hervey, turning back towards the salutri. ‘Good heavens! The poor fellow. How perfectly dreadful… what ill fortune—’

  ‘But not, I’m sure, accidental ill fortune.’ It was now Selden’s turn to look away, leaving Hervey to ponder the suggestion.

  ‘Why do you say… on what evidence do you believe…’

  Selden turned back to him, but he merely raised both eyebrows.

  ‘Come, man: you must have some evidence!’

  ‘I cannot suppose anyone to be innocent of the affair of the batta who had the opportunity to be otherwise.’

  Hervey poured himself more of the cinnamon tea. He could not, he said, gainsay Selden’s logic. ‘And yet I cannot somehow believe—’

  A sudden commotion below the window halted his speculation. They leaned out, to see several dozen of the palace staff babbling excitedly and calling on the salutri. ‘Come,’ said Selden, making for the door. ‘Something’s amiss.’

  They followed the little crowd to the other side of the gardens, to one of the summer wells. Another babble; this time of outdoor servants as they pulled out the body of a man, gagged, and bound with ropes. They parted to let the salutri through. He needed only a glimpse of the smooth cheeks, the long straight hair and the doll-like upturned nose to recognize him.

  ‘Kunal Verma,’ he sighed, shaking his head.

  ‘Who?’ said Hervey.

  ‘Kunal Verma — the rajah’s dewan, keeper of his treasury. And of land deeds.’

  XIV. THE SUBSIDIARY ALLIANCE

  A week later

  Chintalpore was becoming hot and the air heavy. The south-west monsoon, the yearly salvation of the tens of thousands of ryots who dwelled so close to the soil as to be almost indistinguishable from it, was a full three months away. Throughout the winter months, the sun being low, the surface of the earth in Hindoostan had been steadily cooling until now its temperature was lower than the seas adjoining it. By some as yet unfathomed effect no moisture-bearing clouds could be induced to leave the ocean and water the land. But from March onwards, with the sun higher, and its strength bearing directly on the land for longer, the surface of the earth would speedily become hotter than the ocean. And when this inversion came about, by some equally unfathomed effect, moisture-laden clouds from the south-west would march steadily landwards until, by about the end of May, they would be watering the Malabar littoral prodigiously, and as far north even as Bombay. By the middle of June, if the gods had granted a favourable monsoon, Chintal’s fearsome heat and enervating humidity would be relieved by the daily downpours. Thereafter, there would be a bountiful harvest and plenty in the land. But if the gods were not propitiated and did not grant a good monsoon, then there would be misery, starvation, death. Which of these there was to be would increasingly occupy the prayers of the Rajah of Chintal’s subjects in this onset of the hot season. But as for the rajah himself, what most occupied his mind, and filled his prayers, was the nizam.

  Hervey had sent letters to Guntoor for Madras and Paris, together with a note for the collector advising him of his intention to leave for Haidarabad at the end of the (yet another) week. Having become more circumspect since Jhansikote, and now with the complications in respect of the jagirs since the death of Kunal Verma, he intended to proceed with more formality. However, Selden had been unable to transact the business with the land registry. It was not a propitious time, the salutri explained, for the rajah’s ministries were in confusion. Another ten days or so, he believed, would see things better placed.

  The letter to Colonel Grant had exercised Hervey a great deal. His immediate disposition had been to write a complete account of all that had passed, yet in successive drafts he had been unable to render any account that did not convey an inauspicious picture of his mission. This he partially ascribed to the difficulty of portraying the peculiar circumstances of Chintal, but mostly he knew it to be the result of his own misjudgements to date. And so he had in the end written a somewhat bland narrative, referring to one or two setbacks, but confident of ultimate success on all counts.

  This and the letter to Madras urging the Company to come to the rajah’s aid with an offer of subsidiary alliance had occupied the whole of one evening and most of its night, and so when the hircarrah left for Guntoor next morning it was without any letter to Horningsham. This had not done much for Hervey’s spirits, and he had therefore thrown himself into lance drill with the rissalahs. It perfectly occupied his mind — though the price was heavy, with more than one crashing fall from misjudging the angle of strike on a tent peg. But neither did he think it time wasted in the wider scheme of things, for although the lance was merely his ostensible reason for being in India, the Chintal rissalahs were proficient with the weapon — skilled, even — and his findings would surely find a place at the Horse Guards as they considered at this very moment what should be the future of the lance in the British cavalry.

  The Chintal sowars carried lances made of bamboo, ten and a half feet long, with a bayonet-shaped steel head. ‘I dare not recall how close I came to feeling the lance’s point at Waterloo,’ said Hervey to Captain Bauer one morning as they watched another round of tent-pegging, shaking his head at the thought.

  ‘I am surprised you do not have lancers, after so many years’ seeing their effect,’ replied Bauer, his German heavy.

  ‘Oh, do not mistake me, sir, for I myself am as yet unconvinced. The lance, for all its fearsomeness, has limited utility compared with the sabre.’

  ‘Ach, Hervey — but its moral effect!’

  True, he conceded, its moral effect alone could be overwhelming, even before the weapon was brought to bear. ‘But in a mêlée, if only one can get in close, the lance is useless against the sabre. The lancer can scarcely parry, or wheel and thrust half so well as a sabreur — or even a resolute infantryman with his bayonet.’

  ‘Ja, perhaps so — then he throws his lance down and draws his sword. But first, Hervey, how do you get to close quarters with a squadron of lancers?!’

  ‘That, indeed, is the material point,’ replied Hervey smiling.

  Bauer joined in his enjoyment of the pun.

  Hervey was still intent on serious study, however. ‘What has determined its length? In England there is a regiment of light dragoons presently engaged with a lance some sixteen feet — longer even than a medieval knight’s.’

  ‘Ten feet, or thereabouts, is a good compromise,’ said Bauer, nodding. ‘It allows the sowar to pick off a crouching man and follow through cleanly, without surrendering any great advantage of reach. If he wants more reach then he must lean from the saddle!’

  Hervey saw as much, as lancers galloped this way and that in front of him, effortlessly taking tent pegs further from their line each time.

  ‘Of one thing I am sure, Captain Bauer: carrying a lance is a most effective aid. At the trot and canter it makes the man greatly more active, obliging him to ride his horse forward into the rein, and promoting a more independent seat. When it is in my power to do so I shall have my own troopers carry a lance at riding school.’

  Bauer was delighted: exactly his sentiments when riding master many years before. ‘Hervey, you would make a good German!’ he beamed.

  They did not speak for several more minutes, except to remark on one sowar’s skill or another, but then Hervey’s thoughts returned to the question of moral effect. The rajah’s sowars could wield the lance with impressive skill; he fancied there was no sight more able to strike fear into an adversary than a line of their steel points lowered and approaching at a gallop — perhaps the only chance cavalry had of breaking an infantry square without support of artillery. And it was artillery the rajah was in want of. Yet even now as he watched the drill he could not but imagine that, if the in
fantry maintained their close order in the face of the moral effect, lancers would make no more material impression than would dragoons. The matter turned — as did every battle in the last instance — on how welldrilled was the infantry. ‘Captain Bauer,’ he said in a measuring way, ‘do you not think a front rank of lances, backed by a second of sabres, and perhaps even the third, might have the same moral effect and yet have greater handiness?’

  Alter Fritz did not hesitate. ‘Hervey, I give you my opinion, but I am an old quartermaster only. You should have made these enquiries of Captain Steuben. He commanded a squadron against the French, you know.’

  They had not spoken of Steuben since the accident. On the subject of cold steel, that German had been as passionate as at other times he had been distant. But now he lay in the palace’s great marble crypt with the other honoured servants of Chintal. ‘It was a swift death, says everyone, for he must have broken his neck at once.’

  ‘Ja, a howdah is a fair height to fall from.’

  ‘Captain Bauer, do you know… did anyone see what happened at this time?’

  Alter Fritz shook his head. ‘I heard tell only the mahout and two attendants.’

  As drill ended, Private Johnson appeared. He had the sort of smile which Hervey knew portended awkward news. ‘That Miss Lucie is ’ere, Captain ’Ervey, sir,’ he announced.

  And before Hervey could begin anything by reply, Emma Lucie, beneath a straw hat of huge diameter, came striding towards the edge of the maidan. ‘Good morning, Captain Hervey,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way.

  Hervey and Bauer dismounted, the German’s heels clicking together in the prescribed manner, while Hervey took off his shako.

  ‘I heard that you were… how shall one say? — in trouble?’ she smiled.

  Hervey sighed. ‘News travels quickly along the Godavari, it seems, madam.’

  Emma Lucie sighed too. ‘News, perhaps, but alas, not the budgerow: progress upstream is very slow.’

  Hervey stood before her almost lost for further words. ‘Madam, I am not sure to what news exactly you refer, but I am dismayed to think that any cause of mine should be occasion for your discomfort.’

  Bauer gave a discreet cough.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, sir,’ said Hervey. ‘Miss Lucie, may I present Captain Bauer, quartermaster and acting commanding officer of the Rajah of Chintal’s lancers?’

  ‘Il me donne du grand plaisir de vous rencontrer, madame,’ replied Bauer, his accent clipped.

  ‘Captain Bauer: Miss Lucie,’ continued Hervey, in French. ‘Miss Lucie’s brother is in the Company’s service at Madras.’

  Emma Lucie made more of a bow than a curtsy. ‘Von welchen Staat des Deutschen Bund kommen Sie, Herr Rittmeister?’

  ‘Von Württemberg, gnädiges Fräulein.’

  But, happy though Bauer evidently was with the company of a lady who spoke his language, he had pressing duties to be about, and after a few pleasant exchanges he made his apologies and took his leave.

  Hervey handed his reins to Johnson and invited Emma Lucie to walk back with him to the palace.

  ‘Well,’ she began breezily; ‘it appears the reports of your perilous situation were but exaggeration!’

  Hervey smiled. ‘We have had our difficulties, Miss Lucie, but I believe them to be past.’

  ‘Captain Hervey,’ she smiled, ‘in my experience of this country, as one misfortune abates another follows quickly on its heels.’

  ‘A most depressing observation, madam.’

  She chose not to respond directly. ‘I was in Rajahmundry when I heard, and I thought what Henrietta would do in the circumstances. I had not seen Chintal — the river is very beautiful I heard tell — and had never met the rajah. Mr Somervile always speaks so well of him. And my brother would not too, I think, wish to hear of your lying untended in Chintalpore. So thus I am come.’

  Hervey admired her spirit if not her judgement. ‘I hazard a guess, madam, your brother will be greatly more alarmed at learning of your being here!’

  ‘He will be greatly cheered when he learns of your dash at the mutineers. You recaptured the cantonments single-handed, I learn!’

  ‘Hardly that, madam!’ he laughed: ‘that is far in excess of the truth. But may I enquire how you have learned of it?’

  ‘From the rajah — to whom, of course, I first presented myself on arriving here. He is most happy to receive visitors from Madras.’

  ‘Oh…’ he groaned.

  ‘Why do you make that noise?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the rajah’s daughter, the raj kumari, is suspicious that I intend bringing Chintal under the Company’s domination.’

  ‘And what can I be to such a scheme,’ she smiled, ‘a mere woman?’

  ‘The raj kumari is a “mere woman”, madam, and I do not underestimate her power and influence!’

  ‘But it cannot be supposed that I — travelling by budgerow up the Godavari with two servants — am in some way party to intrigue?’

  ‘Miss Lucie,’ said Hervey resolutely, ‘I warrant there is more intrigue here than in Rome. There isn’t a khitmagar who is not party to it. The sister of an official of the Honourable Company must be immediately suspect.’

  ‘Ah,’ she replied simply, though without concern.

  ‘Do not trouble yourself, madam,’ he laughed. ‘I do not believe it will amount to much. I must tell you, however, that I shall in all probability be leaving Chintalpore within the week, and I would advise that you be escorted to Guntoor at that time, if not before.’

  In the shade of the palace’s great walls they were now walking more briskly, and as they passed through the gates a thought seemed to occur to her. ‘You have, I suppose, heard of the latest depredations by the Pindarees?’

  ‘The latest, as I understand, Miss Lucie, are those of which I had intimate acquaintance with Mr Somervile. I believe we were within half a day’s ride of them as they fled into Nagpore.’

  Emma Lucie seemed surprised. ‘Why no, Captain Hervey: there have been more incursions into the Circars since then. There was terrible murder and rapine. They came within the civil station at Guntoor, even, and almost as far as Rajahmundry. There was great alarm.’

  ‘Post hoc ergo propter hoc?’

  ‘In what connection?’

  ‘Earlier you said something about one misfortune following another. I have been at pains to understand events here. I was wondering if there might be some connection between what happened at Jhansikote and the Pindaree depredations.’

  Emma Lucie nodded. ‘Another thing I have observed in this country,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘is that everything is perceived to be a consequence of human intrigue or the malevolence of the gods, no matter how apparent to us might its accidental nature be. If there is no connection between the events to which you refer, there will indeed be a connection in the minds of those who contemplate them, and there will therefore, in time, become a real connection in practice.’

  ‘In that case, Miss Lucie,’ said Hervey, with some foreboding, ‘the situation here may be graver than I feared. But that cannot be a concern of mine — or, I venture, yours.’

  ‘And there is not a frigate of the Royal Navy at hand,’ she replied opaquely.

  He did not catch her meaning. ‘Madam?’

  ‘Captain Peto and the Nisus are at present stationed at the mouth of the Godavari.’

  ‘Then I am pleased for Mr Somervile. I trust that Captain Peto has been able to effect all the repairs he wished for?’

  ‘I know not,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Nisus was just come one morning — in some show of force, I believe. She was a most welcome sight.’

  ‘A fathom of water,’ smiled Hervey.

  ‘I do not understand you, sir.’

  ‘Something Bonaparte once lamented: wherever you find a fathom of water, there you will find the Royal Navy.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Johnson, can’t you stop that horse from doing that?’

  ‘No, it’s ’
ad ginger up its arse since I first took it out!’

  ‘I had hoped for an easy ride this afternoon, and Jessye’s in a muck sweat already.’

  ‘D’ye remember that big geldin’ that Captain Jessope ’ad afore Waterloo? I reckon that ’ad been figged right ’n proper when ’e bought it!’

  ‘Enough about figging, Johnson. If you kept your backside a little stiller you might have more success.’

  ‘Does tha want to change ’orses, sir?’

  Hervey laughed. ‘No!’

  ‘Then we’ll ’ave to make t’best of it. Like life.’

  This was one of the rare deeper revelations of Johnson’s philosophy, a unique distillation of barrackroom wisdom and the residual scripture of his poorhouse upbringing. Johnson saw little point in contemplation. Once, in Spain at the height of the campaign, he had modified the chaplain’s rendering of the Gospel, and ‘sufficient unto the parade is the evil thereof’ had become for a time the axiom of the grooms. Johnson saw no difference in a parade in peace or in war, for each required strenuous preparation, each required him to follow precisely the commands given by word of mouth or the trumpet, and each ended when an officer decided that it should. The interim — whether bloody or not — scarcely mattered. Indeed, Johnson believed that he was alive because there was war, not in spite of it: it would otherwise have been the pit or the foundry for him had not the recruiting party happened his way ten years before (few orphans who found their way into those nether worlds saw more than a quarter of what scripture promised was their span of life).

  ‘Johnson, are you content here?’ asked Hervey, trying once more to urge Jessye onto the bit to stop the jog-trotting to which she had recently become inclined.

  Private Johnson, whose Arab mare had done nothing but jog-trot since they had left the stables a half-hour before, was taken aback by the solicitude.