The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

  Your devoted servant,

  Horatio Trelawney

  That made sense. Now I knew why the letters were here. Horatio Trelawney must have been one of us. The letters were a family heirloom. Had they been passed down from generation to generation until they reached Grandpa? Why didn’t anyone else know about them? And why did Marko? I didn’t understand why a bunch of old letters would be worth anything to a guy like him. There must some information in them. Unless Grandpa had conned him, of course. I’d already seen how Uncle Harvey cheated money out of rich men, playing on their vanity. He’d sold a Picasso to Otto Gonzalez in Peru for a hundred thousand dollars, an amazing price for a painting that should have been worth six or seven million, and Otto had been delighted with his purchase until he discovered it was actually a worthless fake. Like father, like son. Maybe Grandpa had done the same thing. Maybe he’d written these letters himself, faking the ink and the paper to make them look old. But why would he do that? Who would he have been trying to cheat? Historians? Collectors? Why should they want these letters? Why should they care about Horatio Trelawney’s love life?

  Questions, questions, questions, but no answers yet.

  Patience, I told myself. There were a lot more letters to read. A whole box packed with them. Maybe the secret was hidden further down the stack.

  I put the first letter face-down on the bed, picked up the next one, and opened the crinkly paper on my knees.

  19 June 1795, Southampton, Hants.

  My dear Miss Pickering,

  Thank you for your letter of Friday last. Of course your mother and both your sisters would be more than welcome to join us. I should not like to visit the theatre unchaperoned! Lord knows what the good people of Southampton might think. I shall call for you at your house at six o’clock on Tuesday next. Thank you for the gift of Clarissa, which looks like a very fine book, although I have not yet had a chance to read beyond the first page. Our battalion has been excessive busy with parades.

  With fondest wishes,

  Your newest friend,

  Horatio Trelawney

  Maybe Marko had been telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t lying to me or trying to cheat me. He hadn’t fought with Grandpa or killed him. These letters might really be nothing more than historical documents, describing the dreary life of one of my ancestors.

  Then why would Marko want them? Why would he break into a house and tie me up, just for a bunch of crinkly old love letters?

  I unfolded the next letter.

  18 August 1795, near Dublin, Ireland.

  My dearest Miss Pickering,

  We have been in this bog-ridden, rain-sodden country for a fortnight now. The food is foul-tasting. The natives are foul-tempered. I would give my right arm to be back in Southampton. No, I would not give my right arm, nor my left neither, for I would need both of them to hold my sweet Susan. I enclose a small token of my affections. Please write to me at the barracks here in Dublin. The address is on this envelope. I hope to see you within two months at the very most.

  With all affection,

  Your devoted admirer,

  Horatio Trelawney

  A voice shouted up the stairs. “Tom!”

  It was Mom. She’d probably seen the broken window and wanted to blame it on me.

  I shouted back: “Yes!”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Grandpa’s room.”

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can you come down here, please?”

  “Why?”

  “Just come down here, please!”

  I snuck the letters under the duvet and headed out, trying to think of an excuse to explain the smashed window and the broken glass on the floor.

  She and Dad were standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was struggling with a vacuum cleaner and she had her arms folded.

  “The rest of us are cleaning up the house,” said Mom. “Would you like to help?”

  Ah, that was good. They must have thought the window had been broken before. Grandpa must have done it himself, they’d decided, or a bird or a fox had bashed it out while the house was empty. Well, I couldn’t see any reason why I should help them clean up the house. Not after the way they’d treated me. So I shook my head. “No.”

  “Tom—”

  “I said no.”

  “Tom—”

  “You wouldn’t take me to Grandpa’s funeral lunch.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So I don’t see why I should help clean up the house.”

  “Tom, it’s not—”

  “I’m going back upstairs.”

  “Tom. Come back here, Tom! Tom!”

  I was already halfway up the stairs. She could have run after me. She could have threatened me with all kinds of unusual punishments. She could have done just about anything, but she didn’t, because, I think, she knew I was right and she was wrong. They really should have taken me to the lunch.

  5

  12 September 1798. Aboard the Audacious. Somewhere in the middle of the ocean, although I know not where, nor do I much care.

  My dear Susanna,

  Life aboard a ship is exceeding monotonous, particularly when you are a soldier and a landlubber, and have no job, no task, nothing to occupy your hands or your mind. I have taken to walking the decks for hours each day, excepting when the storms have hit us, and then I have huddled below decks in the company of my fellow officers, cursing the demons who enrage the skies, spitting us with rain and hurling us about with waves as big as a house.

  We have been a week without sight of land. Yesterday a whale swam alongside us. We fired muskets at him but he appeared not even to notice them.

  In the wind, the ship shrieks like a pig running from the butcher. I hope she will not fall apart. A man could not survive longer than a few minutes in these waters.

  I wish now I had taken my father’s suggestion and returned to my native Cornwall. I think often and fondly of the farm that awaits us, the fields to be tilled. If only we had the money to buy it! Let me make my fortune once we arrive in India, my dearest wife, and bring it home, and then we shall purchase the house that we deserve.

  I do not know when I shall have a chance to send this letter to you, nor when it might arrive in Southampton, but I must write to you nevertheless, missing you so fervently as I am. I shall add this letter to the pile that I have wrote and send them when we reach dry land.

  How is little Thomas? And my darling Charlotte? Give them each a kiss from their father. I miss them more than I can say. I only hope I shall survive these rolling seas and dark skies and return to see them soon.

  With all warm affection from your seasick husband,

  Horatio

  That wasn’t very exciting. Horatio sounded more like my dad than Grandpa or Uncle Harvey. Maybe the Trelawney genes had skipped him, too.

  I added that letter to the pile on the bed and unfolded the next one, in which Horatio arrived in India. He complained about the heat, the bugs, the food, his fellow officers, and the men under his command.

  What did I know about India? Not much. I could find it on a map. I knew the main religion was Hinduism and the women wore dresses called saris. I’m pretty good friends with an Indian kid at school, Kartick, and I’ve been to his house a few times, but it wasn’t much different from anyone else’s. You wouldn’t even know he was Indian. He was born in the States and I think his mom and dad were too.

  Curry. That was the one Indian thing that I knew about. I’d eaten enough of it. Rogan josh is my favorite. Lamb, not chicken. That’s pretty much my favorite meal. A couple of crackly poppadoms to start with, please, then a plate of lamb rogan josh with pilau rice and some naan bread.

  All this thought of curry was making me hungry. I opened the doggy bag that Grace had given me, nibbled the contents—I wasn’t quite sure what they were, but they tasted great—and kept on reading. The next few letters described the dreary routines of a soldier stationed in
a foreign country without much to do. Horatio’s days were taken up with parades and inspections. He had to check that every soldier under his command was carrying a clean musket and a supply of powder. He developed a red rash on his legs and spent three weeks in bed with an upset stomach. He wrote a whole letter about his wife’s homemade plum pudding and how he would have given a year’s salary just to taste it. Then he went back to complaining about the heat, the food, the boredom, and the prickly rash, which had spread up his back and onto his arms.

  In the next letter, things got a bit more exciting.

  13 January 1799, Madras.

  My dear Susanna,

  We have our orders! The army is marching today. Our final destination is supposedly a secret, although everyone knows where we are going, even the men. West to Mysore. To fight the man that they call the Tiger. His real name is Tippoo Sultan. I have heard stories of him, but I shall not scare you with them. He is said to be rich. If we fight him and win, the booty will be magnificent. I shall come home laden with diamonds! I must hurry, we are called. I must speed to deliver this before we march.

  I am, as always,

  your adoring husband,

  Horatio

  Diamonds, I thought.

  Maybe Horatio found them. Maybe he hid them. Maybe Grandpa had got them. Maybe . . .

  I unfolded the next letter from the pile.

  6

  28 April 1799, Seringapatam.

  My dearest Susanna,

  The siege has begun in earnest. Every day, the guns blast from dawn till dusk. The noise is almost unbelievable. I have taken to plugging my ears with cotton. Smoke hangs over the landscape. Men scurry through the lines, carrying weapons and orders. We are in a frenzy of anticipation, awaiting the command to advance.

  I am afeared of dying, not so much for myself as for you and the little uns. Almost as much, I am afeared of killing. I hinted so much to the trusty Sergeant Entwhistle and he advised me not to worry. He said, should I find myself confronted by a ferocious Hindoo, I should know what to do soon enough, and would do it too. Given the choice between living and dying, something within us briskly makes the decision, and we forget all our discomfort at the idea of killing another member of our own species. So he said, having seen many battles, and I am sure he is quite correct.

  I do not know where I should be without Sergeant Entwhistle. Adrift, certainly. Most probably dead already. Should I lose my footing, or my composure, or should my courage desert me in the face of death, he will rule the men on my behalf.

  I saw a man die yesterday.

  The Hindoos have a strange contraption which they aim at us, a long-barrelled weapon which fires explosive rockets. They shoot through the air, screeching like angry cats. Usually we have the time to move ourselves aside before they land in our midst, but young Ruddles was too absorbed by his breakfast, and did not even hear us shouting at him to move himself.

  He was a sweet-faced boy, just a week past his fifteenth birthday, and he was eating a crust of bread when the rocket descended from the sky and broke his skull in half. We buried him last night.

  Baird and Wellesley have been walking through the lines, inspecting the men and querying the officers. Neither knows my name, but I have spoken with them both.

  Baird is a bad-tempered Scotsman who was captured by Tippoo in a previous engagement some years since, and spent two years in the city’s dungeons, where he is said to have been chained to the wall and forced to stand neck-deep in water for month after month. You can imagine his passion for revenge.

  Wellesley is quite different, a lean-faced man with a long nose and a cruel mouth. His brother Richard is the Governor-General in Calcutta and the men whisper that Wellesley owes his advancement to this fact alone. I am not sure that I agree with them. His manner suggests a real soldier and inspires respect. If I was to follow anyone through the smoke of battle, I would be happy enough to follow him.

  Soon the bombardment will cease, the smoke will clear, and the order will be heard along the lines. I shall seal this letter now and write again on the other side of the battle.

  Horatio

  The door opened. Grace stepped into the room. She said, “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  She pointed at the letter in my hand. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sorry, Grace. It’s a secret. I can’t tell you any more. Do you mind me leaving me alone?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mom told me to clean in here.”

  “You can do it later. I’m in here now.”

  “But Mom said—”

  “I don’t care what Mom said.”

  Grace looked at me for a moment. Then she said, “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. See you later.”

  She closed the door behind her. A moment later, I heard the sound of the vacuum cleaner starting up in the corridor. I went back to the letters. I’d almost reached the end. There were only three or four more pieces of paper left in the hollowed-out book.

  5 May 1799, Seringapatam.

  My dearest Susanna,

  The battle is over. A pall of smoke hangs over the city. Blood flows through the streets. Screams echo in the night. Our men have gone wild. Nothing restrains them, nothing holds them back. They have been killing and thieving as if the world will be ended before dawn, as if tomorrow will never come, as if all goodness and rightness has ebbed out of their blood.

  My dear wife, I have seen sights that you could not imagine. I only hope I can forget them.

  At four o’clock this afternoon, Baird led two hundred men to the walls. They scaled the barricades and overcame the line and raced along the battlements. The town was taken almost there and then. Seeing their success, our men flooded forward.

  Fighting continued through the streets till dusk and beyond. I led a small troop toward the palace. We met some fierce resistance, but lost only one of our party, my faithful Sergeant Entwhistle. He took a dagger in his gut. I shall never forget the expression on his face as he sat down, holding the knife’s handle in his own hand, and stared at the blood pouring from his belly. So surprised he looked, as if he could not imagine how such a thing could have come to pass. Then his eyes rolled and he was gone.

  I left a man to guard his body, so he should not be assaulted by the natives while he lay there, and we fought onwards, resolving to return and give dear old Entwhistle a true Christian burial when the battle was entirely won.

  We moved swiftly through the streets, fighting hand to hand, bayonet to body. Soon we came to the palace. Tippoo himself was nowhere to be seen. We whipped quickly through the palace. The enemy ran from us. We dispatched any who remained.

  The palace itself was a scene of wonder. My powers of description are so weak, I cannot paint it adequately in words. I can simply say that I have seen nothing comparable, not even in the finest houses in England.

  We met some men from the 15th, who told us Tippoo was dead. They had seen his corpse themselves, sprawled in the dust on the battlements. They are saying that he was killed by a British soldier, who shot him through the forehead and stole the jewels hanging about his neck. The name of this soldier is not known. He has not come forward. If Wellesley wishes to find him, he will have to search the baggage of every man in the army.

  I am being called. I shall write more later.

  . . .

  A day has passed. I am continuing this letter on my bed. I have a small wound on my leg. You need not worry, my dearest wife. It is nothing more than a scratch, the cut from a Hindoo’s sabre. He caught me with his blade before I could dispatch him.

  The surgeon tells me that the sores should heal in a week or two. He has not time to dress the wound yet, because his attention is devoted to more serious cases, those who have lost an arm or a leg.

  The city is q
uiet. Wellesley allowed the rampage to continue for a day and night, but now he has imposed a curfew and forbidden any more theft or destruction. The men are not happy. Some cannot hold themselves back. Four of our soldiers are to be hanged for looting. Another thirty have been flogged. But they were only the ones who had the misfortune to be caught, the others have escaped scot free with their loot.

  Tippoo Sultan’s treasures have vanished into the pockets of our army. His gold, his diamonds, all are gone. So is the necklace said to be made from pearls the size of hens’ eggs. And so too are the tigers which stood on his throne, each of them speckled with rubies and emeralds. Wellesley has issued an order: he wishes Tippoo’s own treasures for England and King George. Whoever has them will be keeping them well hidden.

  With all adoration,

  And in haste,

  Your beloved husband,

  Horatio