She smiled. It was the sort of knowing smile that only increased his discomfort. ‘And it reminds you of the need to do things which are quite contrary to those you do now?’
‘Just so, madam.’
She smiled again. ‘I can scarcely give an indifferent opinion since my own brother’s view I would know perfectly well. The treaty between the Company and the rajah is of the first importance. But you may know something that they do not, and if your Duke of Wellington troubled to send you here it must be with good reason.’
He could not but concede both points. And he would have wished to share more with her, but that would have been indulgent. ‘What shall you do now?’ he essayed airily. ‘I myself have an assignation with Mr Selden somewhere in the city. It seems he has something of moment he must tell me.’
‘And I fancy that, in general terms, I may know of what he will speak,’ she replied, and none too cheerily.
‘Oh?’ he said. Was there no end to her discernment?
‘Mr Selden asked me to assist him in examining what pass for the accounts in the rajah’s treasury. They are ill-kept but conceal nothing — now that they are at hand, for certain of them came to light only when the babus fled three days ago.’
Hervey made as if to speak, but she held up a hand.
‘Two and a half lakhs, approximating to the batta which had not been paid to the sepoys, was sequestered. It is evident that Kunal Verma did this, but other entries referred — I’m very much afraid — to payments to the “gora log”. There are no white people in Chintal other than the European officers, are there?’
Hervey could scarce make himself believe it.
‘You had better believe it, I think, Captain Hervey, for there is the very canker which has need of a knife!’
He knew it well enough, but it was for the rajah to dispose of the corruption, he said. ‘And he is as like to go into a faint as soon as he hears of it!’
‘Then perhaps you might leave that to me?’ she said resolutely. ‘Yours, I think, is a more pressing duty down the Godavari.’
That much he was more than happy to leave to her. How favoured he felt himself, for he doubted that wiser or more resolute counsel would have come from her own brother, or even the collector. ‘Is there any other account on which Selden must see me? Does he have more especial intelligence?’
‘I don’t know, but I should be surprised if he did not, for I believe the company he keeps is — how shall we say? — fertile.’
Hervey looked astonished. How had she learned so much?
‘Merely by observation. And, I might add, an ear for the native languages — which all who wish to make their fortune here would do well to acquire. But one thing I must tell you, Captain Hervey, for earlier I sowed seeds of doubt in your mind about Mr Selden — so that even now you may think him not without a hand in this. To me, however, it is quite inconceivable that Mr Selden had any part in the business, or even that he knew of its occurrence.’
He was more glad to hear this than anything: ‘I had begun to doubt whether anyone might be trusted in this country.’
The hijron lay in one of the quieter parts of Chintalpore. Hervey had expected — inasmuch as he had given it any thought — quite the opposite, that the hijron would be in a place of some bustle and squalor. But instead it was a pleasant-looking haveli, a sizeable single-storey building with well-pointed brickwork, a good tiled roof, a courtyard swept clean and full of sweet-scented mimosa in pots, and an air of calm not unlike that he had known in some of the religious houses of Spain. His hijda guide beckoned him inside one of the open, slatted double doors, where the scent of mimosa turned to one of incense. He was conscious of other figures scuttling away, like mice. It should have set him on his guard, but here, unaccountably, he felt no fear of ambush. The hijda led him along a dark passageway, to an inner room where light streamed through tall windows at which muslin curtains hung perfectly still in the sticky, airless heat of the afternoon. There, in a large bed, its sheets perfectly white, lay Selden, his face as ochreous as that day in Toulouse when it looked as though the fever would finally carry him off. He was, however, without the delirium into which the fever periodically cast him, and he greeted Hervey with an attempt to raise himself on an arm. It ended, nevertheless, in a bout of coughing that was only relieved by lime-water and the hijda’s gentle ministrations.
Hervey sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Selden, this is a wretched business. Is there a physician who treats you?’
He coughed again. ‘No, and there is no need, for there is nothing to be done but to sweat out these attacks. It will pass: I feel it.’
But Hervey could at least alleviate his discomfort now by telling him that the nizam’s guns were no more a threat.
Selden, though he had heard the nizam’s forces had received a check, was so amazed that he began another bout of frenzied coughing, which only brandy from Hervey’s pocket flask was able to put a stop to. ‘I should never have thought it possible, Matthew Hervey — not even with your address. In truth I feared I should never again see you alive!’
Hervey smiled. ‘There is still business to attend to down the Godavari!’
‘Just so, Hervey, just so. And there’s more danger there than you might suppose. Three lakhs and more have been drawn off from the pay that was due to the rajah’s sepoys, and it seems that some may have gone to the pockets of his white officers. And one of them remains — the German.’ He began coughing so violently that Hervey thought he would expire, but more brandy eventually stayed the paroxysm. ‘But it is worse. The nizam learned of this through one of his spies — Kunal Verma no less, the same that was found in the well. And, so my own spies inform me, he will use it to coerce that officer into taking absence of leave while the Pindarees are active — or even to throw in with them in the field.’
Hervey was more sickened by this news than before. That an officer should steal from his men was beyond his comprehension, but that he should then abandon them, and the rajah, to whom he must have taken some sort of oath, beggared belief. A more ignoble deed he had not heard of in all his time in the Duke of Wellington’s army — an army which had had more than its share of rogues and felons.
‘Don’t be fooled, Hervey: jewels here — and there are many — will buy most men in the end.’
A month ago, perhaps two, Hervey would have railed against the betrayal, cursed the dissipation. But instead, wearied with both the heat and the intrigues of the past fortnight, he simply sighed. Yet, perhaps strangely, his resolve was not diminished. Rather was it strengthened — as had been the resolve of many at Waterloo when they saw others break and quit the field. ‘Well, so be it!’ he pronounced. ‘We shall see how the rissalahs fare under their native officers!’
‘I’m afraid there is more — worse, indeed,’ said Selden, shaking his head.
Hervey could not have imagined it.
‘The nizam now has guns on the lower Godavari.’
Hervey did not know what to address first — this new intelligence or Selden’s knowing it. In the end he was pragmatic. ‘But how did they get there?’ he demanded. ‘Not a single one escaped our ambuscade.’
‘It seems they have been taking guns downriver — disassembled — these past several months. The rajah’s concession to dastak enables any Haidarabad vessel to navigate the river unmolested.’
‘And how have you learned of all this — and now, at this time?’
‘My dear Hervey, I remember once your quoting to me what the Duke of Marlborough was wont to say — that no war is won without good and early intelligence. And I have told you that in India war is made with spies and bullock carts. The people who nurse me now, the hijdas as we know them, have been my trusty spies these last dozen months. And an exceptional source of intelligence are they.’
Hervey sat silent, his admiration increasing with every word Selden spoke.
‘There is a hijda brotherhood which transcends other allegiances, and there are many hijdas in Haidarabad
— perhaps more than anywhere in India. They have of late fallen prey to the nizam’s sons, whose greed has exacted too high a tax on their possessions. They have a means of communicating that would stand tolerable comparison with the Admiralty’s signal chain — though how it works I don’t know. Nor need I. Well, suffice it to say that the hijdas of Haidarabad have communicated with those of Chintalpore.’
‘And is there any more intelligence?’ asked Hervey, now so thoroughly bemused that nothing, it seemed, could come as a surprise. ‘Some plan of action to spike the nizam’s guns, perhaps? Some subterfuge or stratagem?’
Selden raised his eyebrows and furrowed his brow. ‘I am but a horse-doctor with a few friends who are — shall we say — demi-rep?’
Hervey had feared as much. Perhaps it was as well that the rajah was occupied with his prayers, for without any plan he might become wholly cast down. ‘Do we even know who it was that murdered Kunal Verma?’
‘And Steuben also.’
‘Steuben! He was murdered? I thought his death an accident.’
‘I don’t know for sure. There were no witnesses.’
‘Then do you know who murdered Kunal Verma?’
Selden thought for a while. ‘No.’
Hervey sighed.
‘What shall you do, now?’ asked Selden after a suitable pause.
‘What options do I have?’ smiled Hervey.
‘You ask a fevered horse-doctor for a military appreciation?’ said Selden, at last managing a smile himself.
‘Then I shall ask myself what the duke would do were he here!’
‘Hah!’ said Selden, managing another smile. ‘Is that entirely wise? I hazard a guess what the duke would do, for we had three years and more of it in the Peninsula!’
Hervey returned the smile faintly, expecting the worst.
‘He would find some bit of ground with a few bumps and hollows — would he not? — and then wait for the enemy to give battle. Scarcely an option in this case: the Pindarees would never be so obliging.’
Hervey frowned. ‘You forget the battle of Assaye,’ he countered. ‘The duke still thinks of it as the best fighting he has ever done.’
‘I do forget it. I never, indeed, knew much of it.’
He gave a little shrug. ‘Sindhia outnumbered him by so many — horse, foot and cannon — he appeared to have no option either.’
‘And?’ said Selden, still not conceding.
‘L’audace! He attacked. He simply attacked!’
XVIII. IN THE CANNON’S MOUTH
The plains of the lower Godavari, four days later
The rajah’s modest force at Jhansikote was better found than Hervey expected. It cheered him greatly, for though he had left Chintalpore with his head full of heroic thoughts of Assaye, he had almost become resigned to a hopeless outcome. Defeat for the rajah, confusion for the Company, was what any reasonable appreciation would suggest. And for himself… oblivion, at best. What a loathsome month it had been — a month like no other he had seen: not before Corunna, neither after Toulouse, nor even before or after Waterloo. Then there had been a discernible strand of purpose — some clarity, even — in their endeavours. However, the rajah’s two rissalahs of cavalry, albeit with remounts in want of schooling, and the three battalions of infantry had the stamp of a brigade drilled with purpose and infused with confidence. That much was obvious at once, testimony to Henry Locke’s aptitude and determination. How the marine had managed it Hervey could not imagine, for the sepoys spoke in so many different tongues and Locke had no Telugu or Urdu, nor even any German, and no others had any English beyond the here and now. It was all the greater surprise, therefore, when Hervey learned that the force was now under the command not of Locke, but of Alter Fritz.
Alter Fritz could not explain why Locke had taken leave of his command. The old Württemberger had even less English than the native officers, and Locke had not been able to convey his thoughts well, it seemed. He had therefore given the Rittmeister a letter for Hervey, but in a comedy of errors it had been rendered unreadable when the German’s sabretache had proved not to be waterproof. All that Hervey could now glean was that Locke had become cast down on receiving his note, learning that the nizam’s guns had slipped from their grasp at the border, and that he had left some hours before the news of the destruction on the river reached Jhansikote.
Hervey was now plunged into deep gloom. If he had ever truly thought there to be a chance of overcoming the Pindarees it was only with the resolute help of Henry Locke. What had made him discouraged — Locke, the staunchest of men, the doughtiest of fighters? It was inconceivable that he should take counsel of even his most deadly fears. And yet he was not at his post. Could the sodden letter have contained any explanation that might remove from Hervey’s reluctant thoughts the word ‘desertion’? Surely it must.
But what, now, was he to make of Selden’s fear that Alter Fritz might be implicated in the business of the batta? The officer’s very presence signalled the improbability of guilt — unless he were scheming to deliver the rajah’s lancers into the nizam’s hands. Hervey knew he must trust to his judgement in this. He had not in the beginning always judged men right, but years with the duke’s army had taught him well enough. Taking Alter Fritz to one side as they watched a procession of grass-cutters bearing their loads to the stables, he chose to confront him more or less directly, and in his own tongue. ‘Rittmeister Bauer, could the sepoys have been placed under stoppages without knowledge of their officers?’
Alter Fritz seemed surprised by the question — a not unreasonable reaction, thought Hervey, given their circumstances. ‘Not without the quartermaster knowing,’ he replied unflinchingly.
So plain an answer augured well. ‘And therefore the sepoys were cheated by a European officer?’
‘Yes, and he is dead, I am pleased to say.’
Hervey thought it base to continue in this way: he would speak openly. ‘Certain papers have been found in Chintalpore which suggest that more than one officer may have been guilty.’
‘They are all dead but me, and so you wish to know—’
Hervey, deeply embarrassed, made to stay his words.
‘No, Hervey. It is right that you should consider it — your duty as a soldier.’
Hervey’s look indicated his gratitude.
‘But there is nothing I can say. No papers will show any guilt of mine, yet I can do nothing to prove that I am without it.’
‘You are here: that is enough, perhaps?’
‘Ja, Hervey — I am here.’
Rani knew why Locke had been downcast. Rani, the hijda whom Hervey had asked to accompany him, knew everything about the gora log. Yes, Rani knew the reason Locke had gone, and now he spoke. There was only one person who knew in advance of Hervey’s intentions, he said in his squeaking Urdu. It was Locke. And Locke had told the nautch girl with whom he shared his bed. Pillow talk had given away the secret, said the hijda, running his tongue between his lips. And now Locke-sahib could not face the shame.
Hervey felt the shame strongly enough just hearing him speak of it.
But Rani knew not quite so much of the gora log as he supposed. An hour later, just as the little force was about to leave Jhansikote for the lower plains, Cornet Templer returned from his galloper duties and was able to disavow all thoughts of Locke’s perfidy — if not of his want of judgement. The dust of the cornet’s hard ride, turning his uniform to the colour of the earth, and caked hard to his hands and face by sweat and the baking heat, neither obscured his fine features nor shrouded his golden hair. Rani’s excitement was all too apparent, but Templer merely smiled where Hervey recoiled, for he had been in Hindoostan long enough.
‘Well, then, man!’ demanded Hervey, his frustration with everything and everybody getting the better of him. ‘What is it that Mr Locke thinks he is about?’
Templer smiled winningly. ‘I saw him on the road to Guntoor — or, rather, to Rajahmundry: the two are as one for much of the way—’
‘Yes, yes, Templer: let us have it directly!’
‘Well, he would not tell me what he was about, only that he would deal with the nizam’s guns in his own way. He said that he had written a full account for you, and had given it to Captain Bauer.’
Hervey could only raise his eyebrows. ‘The Godavari has claimed the account as well as the nizam’s daughters — some of them, at least.’
‘Sir?’
‘It is no matter — not at this time. Continue, if you please.’
‘That is it, sir. Except that Mr Locke said that he was having to work on the presumption that you might be dead!’
‘I could have no quarrel with the logic of that, be assured of it!’ laughed Hervey, pleased at least that Locke’s steadfastness could no longer be doubted.
‘And now, is the collector able to render us any assistance?’
‘Yes indeed, sir!’ beamed Templer. ‘Two rissalahs of Colonel Skinner’s irregulars!’
‘No artillery?’
‘Artillery? Yes, sir: a troop of the Gun Lascar Corps from Madras.’
Hervey looked at him despairingly. ‘Mr Templer, it is artillery which we have greatest need of; you might have told me of them first!’
Templer was unabashed. ‘You have not seen Colonel Skinner’s Horse, sir!’ he grinned.
Irrepressibility was not to be undervalued, Hervey told himself, however trying it might be. ‘Well done, sir!’ he acknowledged. ‘And when might we expect them?’
‘Gallopers were sent to Rajahmundry, where Colonel Skinner’s regiment have come from Calcutta. And the Gun Lascars have already set out from Guntoor. Their progress will not be rapid, for the artillery is hauled by bullocks. Two days, perhaps three?’
‘Oh,’ said Hervey; ‘not as felicitous as I was beginning to imagine.’ And then, as if he remembered an obligation to be at all times optimistic, he added: ‘But a great deal better than nothing.’
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