by M. M. Kaye
The Rana's dress, jewels and diamond-hilted sword were magnificent. But his person did not do them credit, and Ash, gazing up at him from the bottom step of the stairs, was conscious of a violent sense of shock.
This – this misshapen baboon – was the bridegroom that Nandu had chosen for Juli. For Juli and Shushila… No, it could not be – there must be some mistake: the man on the dais could not possibly be in his late thirties. Why, he was old. Sixty, at least, if not seventy. Or if he was not, he certainly looked it, and Ash could only suppose that his way of life must have been singularly unsavoury to give him the appearance of old age before he was forty.
Discounting prejudice, the Rana was certainly an unprepossessing spectacle, and Ash could not have been the first person to be struck by his resemblance to a baboon. Anyone who had visited a zoo or been to Africa could hardly fail to notice it, and it was probably just as well that no citizens of Bhithor had ever done so and therefore did not realize how strikingly their ruler's facial structure, with its close-set eyes, abnormally long nose and wide, flaring nostrils, resembled a mandrill's an old, sly, vicious mandrill, with an evil temper. As if that were not enough, the thin, hatchet-shaped and almost chinless face was deeply scored with the tell-tale lines of debauchery and self-indulgence, and the close-set eyes were as watchful and unblinking as a cobra's their stillness in marked contrast to the ceaseless movement of the long, loose-lipped mouth; for the Rana was chewing pan. The betel-nut stained his lips and teeth and made small wet, red patches at the corners of his mouth, so that he might almost, like Kali, have been drinking blood.
In complexion he was fairer than most southern Europeans, for his lineage was impeccable (the royal house of Bhithor claimed descent from a god) but the pale golden tone of his skin was overlaid by an odd greyish tinge, and there were dark purple pouches, like bruises, under the cold, unblinking eyes. All in all, he presented a singularly unattractive picture, and the magnificence of his attire seemed to emphasize his physical shortcomings rather than detract from them.
Ash had been prepared for a good many things, but not this. The shock momentarily deprived him of words, and as the Rana remained silent it was left to Kaka-ji to step into the breach and fill the awkward pause with a graceful speech, to which the Rana replied a good deal less gracefully.
It was an inauspicious beginning, and the remainder of the morning did nothing to rectify it. The compliments proper to the occasion were duly exchanged – and at unconscionable length – and when at last they were over the Rana rose, and dismissing the assembled courtiers, retired to the ‘Hall of Private Audience’, the Diwan-i-Khas, accompanied by his Diwan, his senior councillors and the representatives of Karidkote.
The Diwan-i-Khas, unlike the Diwan-i-Am, was pleasantly cool. It consisted of a small marble pavilion set in the middle of a formal garden, and was surrounded by water channels in which fountains played – setting that not only charmed the eye and reduced the temperature to comfortable limits, but ensured privacy, as no shrub was large enough to conceal an eavesdropper, and even if by some miracle an intruder had been able to enter the garden unseen, the splash of the fountains would have prevented him from hearing anything that was said inside the pavilion.
A chair had been provided for Ash, but the Rana occupied a cushioned and carpeted dais similar to the one in the Diwan-i-Am, while the remainder of the company disposed themselves comfortably on the cool marble floor. Uniformed servants dispensed glasses of cold sherbet, and for a short time the atmosphere seemed pleasantly friendly and informal; but it did not last. No sooner had the servants withdrawn than the Diwan, acting as the mouth-piece of the Rana, proceeded to justify Ash's worst fears.
He had approached his subject obliquely and wrapped it up in a wordy cloud of compliments and polite phrases. But shorn of irrelevant verbiage, the matter was plain: the Rana had no intention of paying the full bride-price for the Rajkumari Shushila, or of marrying her half-sister Anjuli-Bai, unless the bribe for doing so was increased to over three times the sum that had originally been offered (and pocketed), for after all, the girl's birth hardly qualified her to be the wife of such an exalted personage as the ruler of Bldthor, whose line was one of the oldest and most honourable in all Rajputana, and the Rana had already made a great concession in even considering the possibility of marrying her at all.
To be fair to the Rana, the sum that Nandu had demanded as a bride-price for Shushila had been very large. But then in view of her rank, her outstanding beauty and her impressive dowry, she was a valuable commodity in the marriage market and there were others who would have paid as much, if not more, for such a wife: several of them princes of far more consequence than the ruler of Bhithor. Nandu, for his own devious reasons, had decided in favour of the latter, and the Rana's ambassadors had not quibbled over the price or demurred at paying half of it in advance – or at giving a written promise on his behalf to pay the remainder as soon as the bride arrived in Bhithor, because large as the sum was, it had been drastically reduced by the bribe demanded as the price of the Rana's consent to take Anjuli-Bai as well as the lovely Shushila; and as any question of a second bride-price had been waived, the Rana had, in fact, got a bargain.
But it appeared that he was not content with it, and wanted more. Much more. The additional sum he now demanded for marrying the Feringhi-Rani's daughter came to a good deal more than half Shushila's bride-price, and if it were paid (and the half he himself still owed was not) it would mean that he would not only have acquired two brides, together with their dowries, for nothing, but would actually have made a handsome profit out of the transaction.
The demand was so outrageous that even Ash, who had been prepared for something of the kind, could not at first believe that he had heard aright – or if he had, that the Diwan had not exceeded his instructions. The man could not seriously mean what he said. But at the end of half an hour of argument and expostulation it was clear that the Diwan had done no more than speak his master's mind, and that the councillors were all in agreement with him. Plainly, now that the brides and their dowries were virtually in a trap, with their forces at the mercy of the guns and garrisons of two forts, and their camp confined to a valley from which the only exit was barred by a third, Bhithor saw no reason for keeping to the terms of the contract. The council not only approved the demand for a further extortionate bribe, but clearly considered that their ruler had shown himself to be a chabuk sawi, a smart fellow, who had successfully tricked a formidable opponent.
Ash could see no point in prolonging a discussion that could only lead to a loss of temper and a consequent loss of face by one or other of his own party – probably himself, for he had seldom felt angrier. It had been bad enough in all conscience to know that Juli was lost to him, without having to discover that her future husband was not only physically repulsive and prematurely aged by debauchery, but capable of going back on his word and resorting to blackmail; and not above insulting her in open council.
The fact that such a creature should dare to demand that he be paid for the privilege of making Juli his wife was beyond bearing, and Ash was aware that it was only a question of time before he lost his precarious hold on his temper, and spoke his mind in terms that would be both undiplomatic and quite unforgivable.
He therefore brought the proceedings to an abrupt close by announcing that – regrettably – the terms put forward by the Diwan were wholly unacceptable and would not be met: and forestalling further argument, rose to his feet, bowed curtly to the Rana, and withdrew in good order, followed by the fuming representatives of Karidkote.
28
The escort was waiting for them in the outer courtyard, and they mounted in grim silence, and did not speak as they rode back through the narrow streets and under the great archway of the Elephant Gate where the lounging sentries grinned openly as they passed.
The valley shimmered in the heat and there was no sign of life in the forts that looked down from the low hills to the left and right of
the city, for the garrisons were taking their ease in the shade. But the mouths of the guns showed black against the sun-baked stone, and Ash stared up at them, and noting their number, spoke abruptly, his voice raw-edged with rage:
‘It's my own fault. I should have backed my own judgement, instead of letting a pompous Political Officer give me orders and rap me over the knuckles for insulting a ruling prince with my unworthy suspicions. Much he knows! That treacherous old spider had it all planned, and we've done exactly what he meant us to do – walked meekly into his parlour.’
‘It is terrible… terrible,’ moaned Kaka-ji. ‘I cannot believe… How is it possible that the Rana should refuse to pay? That we should pay…?’
‘Don't worry, Rao-Sahib. We won't,’ said Ash shortly. ‘He is merely bluffing.’
‘You think so?’ inquired Mulraj. ‘Hmm. I wish I could feel sure of that. He has enough guns in those forts to smash the valley into dust – and all of them trained on our camp. If it should come to a fight we would have no chance, since of what use are swords and muskets against stone walls and heavy cannon?’
‘It will not come to a fight,’ snapped Ash. ‘He would not dare.’
‘Let us hope that you are right. But I would not care to wager on it. The princes of Rajputana may think it prudent to pay lip-service to the Raj, but they still wield great power within their own states, and even the Sahibs of the Political Department – as you have seen prefer to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to much that they do.’
Ash observed tartly that it was going to be difficult to turn a blind eye to this, or a deaf ear either, as he intended to raise a considerable noise about it. He proposed to write a full account to the Political Officer and have the letter sent off by special messenger that very afternoon.
‘That would be as well,’ agreed Mulraj. And added thoughtfully – ‘though I do not think your messenger will get through, for they have the roads well guarded. Moreover, my spies brought me a tale last night that I do not like: they say that the city and the forts can speak to each other without words.’
‘You mean by semaphore?’ inquired Ash, startled. ‘Can they, by jove. I wonder where the devil they learned that?’
‘You know of it, then? It is possible?’
‘Of course. It's quite simple. It's done with flags: you make signs with them and – Oh, it would take too long to explain. I'll show you one day.’
‘Ah, but this is not done with flags. This thing is done with the aid of small shields of polished silver that catch the light of the sun and flash warnings that can be seen from many miles away.’
‘That for a tale,’ scoffed Ash, losing interest. His scepticism was understandable, for though he had read that the Indians of North America had long since learned the trick of sending visual messages by means of smoke, the somewhat similar method of communication described by Mulraj, and that would become known as the heliograph, was as yet unknown to the Indian Army, nor would it be used by them for some years to come. He therefore dismissed it as a fabrication, and remarked that it did not do to believe everything one was told.
‘Nor do I,’ retorted Mulraj. ‘But my spies tell me that it is no new thing in Bhithor and that it has been practised here for longer than anyone can remember. They say the secret of it was brought here by a merchant of this city who was a great traveller, and who learned the art from the Chinni-log' (he meant the Chinese) ‘many years before the Company's Raj came to power. Be that as it may, it is certain that all our movements will be watched and reported on, and that no messenger that we send will leave unobserved. They will be ready and waiting for him. And even if one should succeed in slipping through their net, I will wager fifty gold mohurs to five rupees that the only answer he will bring back from the Political Sahib will be a request that you use great restraint and do nothing that might upset the Rana.’
‘Done,’ returned Ash promptly. ‘You'll lose, because he'll have to take action on this.’
‘I shall win, because, my friend, your Government does not wish to quarrel with the princes. To do so might lead to bloodshed and armed rising, and that would mean the dispatching of regiments and the expenditure of much money.’
Unfortunately, Mulraj had been right – on both counts.
Ash had sent off a detailed report of the latest developments, and it was only after the best part of a week had passed without any sign of his messenger with the reply that stringent inquiries and a strongly worded protest to the Diwan revealed that the man had got no further than the far end of the gorge, where he had been stopped and subsequently held prisoner in the fort on a trumped-up charge. (He had, it seemed, ‘been mistaken for a notorious bandit' and the error was deeply regretted.) The second messenger did not go alone, but was accompanied by two armed troopers. They returned three days later, on foot, having been ambushed some twenty miles beyond the border by a party of dacoits who had stripped them of all they possessed, and taking their horses, left them naked, wounded and without food, to find their own way back.
Ash let it be known that he himself would be the next messenger, and that he would be taking an armed escort of over a dozen picked men of the Karidkote State Forces, all of them crack shots. And though he had not actually done this – being unwilling to leave the camp to its own devices with the Rana and his councillors in their present mood and tempers running high among their angry guests – he had made a pretence of doing so by riding with the original messenger and the escort until they were well outside Bhithor.
He did not see the warning sun signals that blinked frantically behind him from a high rooftop in the city and the outer walls of the two guardian forts. But Mulraj did, and he grinned as he watched them, for his spies had not been idle and the code was a very simple one – far more so than that complicated business of dots and dashes that the Sahib had called ‘Morse' and tried to expound to him. The Bhithories had more sense than to waste time over such things, and like the Red Indians confined themselves to essentials. Their code was a model of simplicity, consisting of a single sustained flash for ‘Enemy’ or, alternatively, three long ones for ‘Friend, do not molest’, followed by short ones to indicate the numbers involved, up to a score; and if in excess of that, by a flurry of flashes. The addition of a side-to-side movement meant that the man or men in question were mounted, and not on foot, while several wide circular sweeps ordered ‘stop them!’. To which the reply was seldom more than a single answering flash that could be translated as ‘Message received and understood’. There were no other signals, Bhithor having found these more than adequate.
Mulraj watched the agitated flashes that commanded ‘friends, do not molest’, and his grin turned to a laugh, for he knew that Ash intended to turn back as soon as the border had been safely crossed – being reasonably certain that this time no plans would have been made to waylay the party, as the Rana would never risk attacking a well-armed band of men commanded by the Sahib himself, and by the time it was discovered that the Sahib was no longer with them, it would be too late to arrange yet another unfortunate accident.
All this had wasted a good many days. But they had not been spent in idleness. Those who did not possess tents had busied themselves constructing grass huts that would protect them from the burning sun and the night dews, and though wood was far from plentiful in Bhithor, Mulraj – visualizing a lengthy stay and anxious for the horses now that the hot weather had begun – had set men to work felling the broom-stick palms and the scarlet dak trees, and presently a score of stoutly built sheds arose, well thatched with palm-fronds and bundles of reeds from the lake.
Ash and his panchayat, for their part, had paid repeated visits to the city palace, where they conferred endlessly with the Diwan and one or other of the senior ministers, and occasionally with the Rana himself, in an effort to break the deadlock by persuading him to honour his bond or at least moderate his demands. They had also given a number of banquets for him and his courtiers, councillors and officials, and once, when the Rana h
ad sent word that he was unable to attend because of a painful attack of boils (an affliction he was prone to), they had proffered the services of Gobind, in the hope that Kaka-ji's invaluable Hakim might be able to relieve the pain and thereby earn his good will.
Gobind had in fact not only succeeded in doing this, but had actually effected a cure, which was something that the Rana's own hakims had signally failed to do. But though the grateful patient had rewarded him with a handful of gold mohurs and presented Kaka-ji with a large ruby set in a gold thumb-ring, his attitude towards the marriage settlements had remained unchanged. For all the results that Ash and his colleagues achieved they might just as well have addressed their arguments to the pillars of the Diwan-i-Am and given banquets for the local pigeons; and when at last the messenger and his escort returned with the Political Officer's long-awaited reply, it proved to be almost exactly what Mulraj had predicted.
The Political Officer confessed to being greatly disturbed by Captain Pelham-Martyn's communication. He, Major Spiller, could only suppose that Captain Pelham-Martyn had either misunderstood the Rana's proposals or been less than patient in his handling of the ruler and his ministers. He was reluctant to believe that the Rana intended any breach of faith, but on the other hand he admitted the possibility of there being faults on both sides – each had probably misunderstood the other. He advised Captain Pelham-Martyn not to rush his fences but to proceed with the greatest caution, and having stressed the necessity for exercising Tact, Courtesy, and Forbearance, ended by saying that he looked to the Captain to do everything in his power to avoid antagonizing a ruling prince who had always been a loyal supporter of the Raj, and therefore…
Ash handed Mulraj five rupees without comment.