“Your Highness’s Army is in good hands. Major Owthwaite Sahib has a distinguished reputation.”
“The Major Sahib is a good man, but no longer young. You are the son of your father and the grandson of a great general. I hope that, if need be, I can call upon your military wisdom.”
“I am now a civilian, but if I can advise you in any way I shall gladly do so.”
The Nawabzada had been examining and admiring his own new pair of guns with shining eyes. In deference to his father he had been silent, looking at Ramsey from time to time in admiration. There was a pause in the conversation while his father looked searchingly at Ramsey. He felt he could speak without it being a rude interruption.
“Rumgee Sahib, there is a story abroad that you defeated attacks by river pirates and Thag on your way here.”
“Where did you hear such tales, Nawabzada Sahib?”
The Nawab said “That Pathan of yours has been bragging, in typical Pathan fashion, in the teashops and the chakla.”
The Nawabzada asked “Is it true, Rumgee Sahib, that you slew many in two fierce fights?”
“It is true that we were attacked twice. And, as you see, we survived.”
The Nawabzada shook his head in admiration. “Arré! Shabash! Karampur needs a great warrior like you. And your two sipahi.”
“They are no longer sipahi. They, like me, are civilians now.”
“Once a soldier always a soldier, Rumgee Sahib.”
The Nawab nodded with approval. “Perhaps the time has come for Major Owthwaite to retire. Then I shall need a new Military Adviser; a young and energetic one. The post is yours for the asking.”
“You are very kind, Nawab Sahib, but I have obligations to my partner in Calcutta.”
“I could settle those for you.”
“It is not only a matter of money. He has entrusted me with his interests.”
“You could still look after his interests.”
“I am sure Major Owthwaite is capable of all you require from your Military Adviser.”
“My Military Adviser is also the commander of my Army in the field. Is that not what all officers aspire to? The command of an army in battle, a generalship.”
“But, Your Highness, if, as you say, you prefer diplomacy to war, if you intend to subdue the Raja of Karampur by a show of strength and not by having to fight him, your field commander will not command an army in battle.”
The Nawab grinned and chuckled. “You are as clever as your father. But if Karampur forces it upon us, we shall have to fight to defend ourselves. I have sent Major Owthwaite to the Karampur frontier to find out what is happening. Never mind for now: you and I can talk about this some other time. And you must tell me precisely what these business interests are of which you spoke. There are other matters to attend to now. This evening we will have a tamasha, at which you shall see for yourself why it is that I value Khaufnak so highly. In the meanwhile, I wish you to see how high a place the horse has in my affections and how I treat those who allow harm to befall him.”
“But I understand that he came to no harm.”
“He was grazed and cut when he fell, and there is a big swelling on his head. The men who are supposed to guard him have to be punished. One of the three, Khaufnak himself killed at the time.”
The Nawab led the way, followed by the Nawabzada, the Dewan, Ramsey and several courtiers who were awaiting them outside the audience chamber. They went out of the palace and through a rose garden to a rectangular courtyard of marble, surrounded by a low wall. In the centre of the patio was a tank, some hundred feet long and thirty wide. There were several ripples on the surface. Ramsey saw the eyes and snouts of crocodiles swimming aimlessly about. A stream diverted from the river kept up a constant flow of water.
Cushions had been laid under a canopy at the pool’s edge, to which the Nawab conducted his party. Ramsey was already feeling sick in anticipation of what he guessed he was about to have to witness.
A tree trunk, peeled of its bark, had been thrown across the tank. The grease with which it had been coated glistened in the sun.
On opposite sides of the tank stood the cavalry sergeant and a trooper whom Ramsey had seen when they came in pursuit of the mad horse. Both men were blindfolded and had their arms bound behind their backs, and each was flanked by two members of the Nawab’s bodyguard.
When the Nawab’s party had settled on the cushions, the Nawab made a gesture. The two men’s bonds were cut.
The Nawab smirked. “They need their arms free to balance, or the entertainment is over too quickly.”
Sweat was pouring down the faces of both the prisoners. They were led to opposite ends of the greased log and pushed onto it. Their feet faltered as they held their balance. They hesitated. A sword point soon got them moving. They inched forward, swaying. The surface of the water swirled as curious crocodiles converged on the place where the two men advanced slowly and cautiously towards one another.
The Nawab sat forward, hands clasped. The Nawabzada watched with his mouth open and dribble running from the corners. The Dewan sat back on his cushions, impassive.
The two men on the greased tree trunk teetered and slipped; regained their footing; slipped again; balanced on one leg; then stood firm on both; then slid a little further forward.
They had almost met at the half-way point. They must, Ramsey told himself with disgust, be able to smell each other’s sweat of fear, to hear each other’s laboured breathing. They paused, a few inches apart. They stopped, they edged forward. Each had one foot well advanced. Their feet touched. They paused again to try to work out a way past each other. It was impossible.
The Nawab waved a hand. A man at each end of the tree trunk bent and rolled it. The two men on it staggered, clutched each other and fell into the tank. There was a violent agitation in the water as the crocodiles took them. Ramsey could hear their bones being crunched. The Nawab and Nawabzada roared with laughter.
*
The Nawab did not invite women to his table. The entertainment was held at sunset, when it was cool, so that the ladies who had had such a narrow escape from Khaufnak could see for themselves how lucky they had been.
On a parda balcony the Nawab’s womenfolk assembled to watch the fun, veiled and seated behind net curtains. The white lady guests sat in the Nawab’s pavilion.
Ruth and her mother were placed between Henry Whittaker and Ramsey. Mrs. Bond and Mrs. Carter were there with their daughters. Nobody knew what to expect. They had been summoned to the palace for six o’clock. Mrs. Owthwaite, the only British wife with official standing at the Nawab’s court, had presided over a silver tea service; to the fury of the Carters and Bonds.
Now, without any explanation, they had all been ushered into the pavilion overlooking a fenced enclosure, where the Nawab and his usual entourage had joined them. The Resident, his two assistants and Dr. Bond looked at each other with alarm and indignation. Surely the Nawab was not going to outrage the ladies by compelling them to watch one of his cruel shows? Ramsey, who had heard years ago about the Nawab’s proclivities, realised the purpose of the arena. He looked at Ruth’s face and at her mother’s. Both were serenely expectant, wondering what exotic entertainment had been prepared for them. They gazed around, interested in the row of veiled women behind the gauze curtain, the tall palisade surrounding the courtyard, the liveries and uniforms around them in the pavilion. He felt anger against the Nawab and pity for the two innocents; and for the Englishwomen, who must have some idea now of what was in store.
He bent down to speak to Ruth beside him. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be at all pleasant.”
She turned from her mother and looked up at him. “Do you know what we’re here for?”
“I can only guess. And I’m afraid...”
He was interrupted by a concerted gasp of astonishment, a stifled whimper of female voices, a sharp cry. And Mrs. Owthwaite’s “Cor! Bloody ’ell!”
Looking into the arena he saw sev
eral old women shuffling into it from a door that led from the palace. Each of them carried something over her arm and when they stopped to form a line at one end of the yard these were seen to be gunny sacks: into which they clumsily climbed, holding the edges of the sacks at waist level. Two men stood at the opposite end of the yard, holding a rope between them.
The Nawab, already laughing heartily, leaned over the pavilion rail and shouted “Go!”
The old women began to hop and stumble frantically towards the winning tape. Some of them fell and rolled helplessly, unable to pick themselves up. Others struggled to their feet and hobbled on. All the while the Nawab kept shouting encouragement and execration, gusts of laughter came from his women in the parda gallery.
Constance stood up and glared at the Nawab, whose eyes were on the tormented old women.
“We’re leaving, Ruth. This is the most degrading thing I have ever set eyes on.”
Her husband and daughter rose to their feet, but the Nawab was oblivious of everything but the hilarious spectacle of the sack race, and when they reached the head of the staircase that led down from the pavilion they found their way barred by the Nawab’s bodyguard with drawn swords.
Ramsey had risen with them and watched them try to leave.
Ruth, with tears in her eyes, looked round for him and called “Can’t you do something? We want to get out of here.”
The Resident hurried towards them. “Please... Whittaker... Mrs. Whittaker... Miss Whittaker... please... go back to your seats, I beg of you... I share your distress, but really, this is a breach of protocol... we are the Nawab’s guests... pray return...”
“It is a breach of human decency.” Constance faced him defiantly.
Mrs. Carter twisted in her seat, grinning. “They’re only ayahs and sweeper women, Mrs. Whittaker. They’ll come to no harm. Come and sit down.”
“Them old biddies gets paid for it and there’s five rupees for the winner.” Mrs Owthwaite’s big red face was full of fun. “Hugh... please!” Ruth’s voice broke with distress.
The Dewan was ignoring the commotion. The Nawab was unaware of it. The Chamberlain was trembling with anxiety, his head swivelling from the Nawab to the three Americans.
Ramsey said quietly “I don’t think we’ll be allowed to leave. The best thing is to sit down again and shut your eyes.”
Ruth stamped a foot. “Do something... say something to that... that... monster.” She pointed at the Nawab, who was half over the balcony in his excitement and delight, yelling hoarsely and laughing uproariously.
“I can’t even get near him.” Which was true, for the Nawab was hedged about by a dozen and more of his retinue. “And he’s drunk anyway, or drugged with bhang. He wouldn’t understand if I did manage to get his attention.”
Whittaker took his wife and daughter by the arm and said gently “He’s right, I’m afraid. We don’t have a choice.” He led them back to their chairs, grim-faced.
The old women were getting out of their sacks and presently there was nobody in the courtyard. Ruth stared straight ahead, her lips compressed, her hands clasped tightly, her back rigid.
Ramsey could find no words. He kept glancing at her and resisting the impulse to put an arm around her in an attempt to comfort her.
A gate in the palisade opened and the big grey stallion came bounding through to the accompaniment of applause and cries of admiration from the parda women and the men surrounding the Nawab.
Ruth flinched at the sight of the brute. Then she resumed her expression of scorn, glancing quickly at Ramsey to see if he had noticed her involuntary tremor at this unexpected reminder of her narrow escape.
The horse galloped around the arena. It bucked. It kicked the palisade. Each buck and each kick brought more shouting from the audience.
A black panther loped into the arena and Ruth shuddered. Ramsey put a hand on hers. She unclasped them and gripped his tightly between them. She did not turn her head to look at him.
The contest was quickly over. The panther sprang. The horse whirled on its forehand and lashed out with its hind hooves. The crunch of the panther’s skull caving in was drowned by the yelling voices. Its body was deflected to one side by the power of the kick. It thudded to the ground and slid several yards with the impetus of its leap. The horse turned, reared and its forefeet came down hard on the panther. Khaufnak pounded it with his shod hooves, making a blood-oozing pulp.
Ruth looked imploringly at Ramsey. “Can’t you get us out of here?” A spurt of anger showed. “Or are you enjoying yourself?”
She glanced down at their joined hands and released him.
He stood up and called “Nawab Sahib, these two ladies are not feeling well. Whittaker Sahib and I would like your permission to take them home.”
Mrs. Carter, looking at Ramsey, said loudly “Well! To hear him speak Hindustani you’d take him for a nigger.”
The Nawab turned and gave Ramsey an idiotic drooling smirk. His head rolled drunkenly. He raised a hand and made a vague gesture which might have meant dismissal. He mumbled a reply.
“Now the memsahib and miss-sahib have seen what the stallion can do to a panther, I hope they are suitably grateful to you.”
Ramsey gestured to Whittaker. “Come on, we’re going.”
The Nawab was leaning over the balcony and shouting again. Ramsey gathered that more old women were being ushered out for a sack race. He wondered whether the English ladies were making bets on it.
Chapter Thirteen
The Whittakers’ bungalow was five minutes’ drive in the pony trap from Ramsey’s. The Sadhu who sat under the deodar tree by day was still there: silent, his eyes upturned. Fruit bats and flying foxes quarrelled in a tamarind tree, jostling for places on the upper branches. A gust of wind carried their stench across the road as Ramsey drove past. The night was noisy with the croaking of frogs in the ditches and the pools, called tanks, where Hindus made their ablutions and did their laundry. Mosquitoes buzzed and darted in clouds over the still water. A swarm of them flew around Ramsey’s shoulders and he whipped the pony into a canter and flourished his arm to drive them away. At the Whittakers’ door he sent his sais back with the trap. He would walk home. Although he rode for an hour every morning and evening he missed the many miles of daily marching to which he had so long been used to.
Whittaker greeted him at the top of the steps with outstretched hand. They seemed to do a lot of hand-shaking in America, Ramsey reflected. Among the British it was reserved for farewells before, or reunions after, long separation. This frequent handclasp somewhat embarrassed him.
Constance and Ruth shook hands too, a rare gesture among British women. They both looked pretty and elegant in silk dresses with their blonde hair bright in the lamplight.
“You’ve made this place a home already. I envy you, Whittaker.”
“Say, won’t you call me Henry? We’re not formal people back home. First names are more neighbourly, don’t you think?”
“If that’s what you prefer.”
Constance put a hand on Ramsey’s arm. “You couldn’t have paid me a greater compliment, Hugh... I insist you call me Constance, too... we brought a few of our own things with us to remind us of home.”
“I think that’s the right idea. Our family home in Suffolk is full of ornaments and furniture from India. And tiger and leopard skins, bearskins, heads of every kind of horned beast to be found here. Neither my parents nor grandparents ever thought of bringing anything like that out from home.” He pointed at one of the three rocking chairs.
“You love this country.” Ruth’s tone was flat and accusing.
“There would be no point in disliking the place where one chooses to make a career.”
“I think you love India as much as you love England.”
“Ruth! That is not very polite.”
“That’s all right, Mrs.... Constance. I’m not offended. In a way I have a softer spot for this country than I have for my own. I think it’s the kind of fe
eling parents have for a child that isn’t as robust as its brothers and sisters: one wants to help and protect it.”
“If you are saying India’s sickly, you will get no argument from me.”
“Ruth has had some disturbing experiences here, Hugh. We all have, but Henry insists there’s a rational explanation for everything, however odd it seems.”
“I’m sure he’s right: although I’ve seen many things for which I haven’t been able to find the explanation, although I’m sure there is one. It’s a cruel, superstition-ridden country but the people have a kind of simple goodness. They’re easily misled because they’re ignorant and illiterate, but so are the peasants in countries like Italy, Spain and Ireland. They’re just as superstitious and just as bullied by their priests, in the name of Christianity, as the Indians are by the Brahmins and mullahs.”
“The Irish come to Boston and the Italians to New York.” Whittaker sounded ironical. “I guess a taste of real freedom soon gets rid of most of their superstitions. I don’t know where the Spaniards go. I guess they just stay in Spain, or maybe they go to South America: which is jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”
Ruth said “Mr. Carter and Dr. Bond want to start a hospital here. With all the disease and deformity we’ve seen, it would have to hold half the population to do any good.”
“They’ll have to bribe patients to go there. Every Hindu and Muslim priest in the state will be against it. The Hindus have their own Vaidik medicine and the Mahommedans are fatalists. So are the Hindus. Besides, the people have strange ideas about sickness. If a baby is ill, for instance, they treat the mother or the wet nurse.”
“You could get more sense out of a Sioux or a Mohican. Come on, Mother, let’s go see how Bishen’s making out with the dinner.”
After the first pot roast and American-style apple pie Ramsey had ever tasted — and praised — Whittaker took him aside with their brandy and cigars.
“Well, now, young fella, it’s time you and I had a talk about business. As I told you already, you have the knowledge of the country and the connections that a man needs for success in commerce and I can provide the capital.”
A Good Soldier Page 23