A Good Soldier

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Dr. Bond fidgeted. They didn’t have conversations like this in his family circle; and if they did, they would not have them in the presence of strangers.

  Ramsey and Ruth exchanged a long look: he with a mocking expression, she with one of exasperation, or perhaps it was indignation, or maybe a bit of both. She dropped her eyes, and with a movement which in anyone less determinedly devoid of feminine brittleness would have been a flounce, she put on her bonnet and sat with a foot tapping, expressing haste to be off home and a fine indifference to the welfare of Hugh Ramsey now that he was so obviously recovering his full vigour.

  Dr. Bond, with three nubile daughters of his own to marry off, and an entirely suitable husband for any of them now at hand for the first time since they had left Calcutta, did not welcome the biological signs which he could so plainly read: in both parties.

  *

  The Imam was a hale fifty-odd and of immense stature. Had he not been a mullah he could well have earned fame as a pahlwan, a wrestler. Taller than either Ramsey or Sher Mahommed Khan, with a bulk almost equal to both theirs, he had none of the pudgy softness of the chief Brahmin priest. His great girth and massive chest gave the impression that they were packed with solid flesh, not blubber. He carried himself as erect as a soldier; and with his beard, as long and bushy as the Dewan’s, he looked more a marauder than a holy man. His complexion had the fairness of his ancestors who had invaded India with Tamerlane five centuries ago. With this imposing bulk went a voice that rumbled with the bass resonance of lava boiling in the depths of a volcano; eyes that were so dark there was no perceptible variation between pupil and iris and which glittered with diamond hardness; and teeth of such size and bleached whiteness that they turned even his gentlest smile into a grin of sheer ferocity.

  It was largely because the Imam’s aspect so terrified the Nawab that the Brahmin head priest had been able to insinuate himself into the Nawab’s susceptibilities.

  Between sending his summons to the Great Mosque and the Imam’s arrival at the palace, the Nawab had undergone successive agonies of regret, defiance and apprehension. Now the moment of confrontation had come, he felt unable to sustain it without recourse to artificial courage. He watched his body-servant prepare his draft of bhang. First the hemp leaves were pounded into paste with pestle and mortar. Water, milk, gur — the coarse brown palm sugar he particularly relished — and various spices were added and stirred. He drained the goblet and reclined on his cushions for a few minutes until he felt the drug’s warmth steal over him. Then, with a fixed smile which, a quarter of an hour earlier, would have been beyond his composure, he strode off to a small audience chamber where the Imam awaited him.

  The Imam’s greeting was correct but not cordial, let alone obsequious. The Nawab’s, under the genial influence of his favourite drug, was cheerful to the point of being fulsome. The Dewan, who from protocol had been keeping the Imam company, likened the Nawab mentally to a brown bear ambling cheerfully along the trail of a plump quarry and unaware that a staked pit lay concealed on its path.

  After the first exchange of courtesies the Dewan withdrew. Despite the effects of the bhang, the Nawab involuntarily cast him an imploring look. Left alone with the awesome priest he was about to venture some leading inanity when the initiative was snatched from him.

  There was a preliminary roll of drums from somewhere deep in the Imam’s thorax as he intoned a blessing. Then came the all too lucid accusation.

  “The chief Brahmin and that rascally Sadhu have been frequenting the palace again.”

  There was a damning emphasis on the last word that made the Nawab squirm, the palms of his hands sweat and his heart thump.

  “They are my subjects and have the right to approach me.”

  “They are idolatrous sons of pigs who seek to lead you astray. Anyway, they did not approach you; you sent for them.”

  The Nawab wriggled and fiddled with the rings on his podgy hands. “If they stay away from me too long I know they are plotting against us.”

  “‘Us’?” The bushy eyebrows rose. “The royal plural? Has the principality become a monarchy without my knowing?”

  “I meant us Muslims.” There was a touch of self-righteous asperity.

  “Highly laudable. From what I hear, it is not at all a matter of ‘us’ Muslims. It seems you have established a sect of your own: and limited to one member. Not content with the Sunni and the Shia, it appears you have resorted to a third interpretation of the Prophet’s teachings to suit your own convenience. A version which incorporates a good measure of Hindu ignorance, idolatry, superstition and witchcraft.” The Imam’s voice rose progressively on each pejorative to end in a roar that almost rattled the Nawab’s teeth.

  The Nawab blinked his eyes and flinched as flecks of spittle showered onto him. The grey and black hairs around the Imam’s mouth shone with the foam of his wrath. He filled his mouth with his all too abundant saliva and spat into a silver spittoon which rang with the impact of the dense globule.

  “No, no, I reject the beliefs of all infidels. I try only to preserve peace between the different religions in my state. Neither the chief Brahmin nor the swami has tried to proselytise me. They would not dare. They know how staunch I am to Islam.”

  The thunder was muted but sounded the more threatening for all that, with its implication of reasonableness and controlled wrath. “Then why do you listen to their foolishness so attentively and heed their horoscopes and soothsaying?”

  “Horoscopes? Soothsaying?” The Nawab was staggered. Did the Imam have eyes that could penetrate walls?

  “All their kind cast horoscopes and claim to foretell the future. Therefore these charlatans must be doing so when you consult them.”

  “But I do not consult them.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that they never offer you advice?”

  “Unsolicited.”

  “Asked or unasked for, any advice or opinion of such men is offensive to Allah. What have they been telling you?”

  “That the Englishman who has recently arrived here, Rumgee, is a spy for the British Government. That he has come to provoke trouble which will bring the British here to rule us. That there is more trouble brewing on the Karampur frontier: that the Raja casts greedy eyes on our territory.”

  “The first is a lie. As for the others: that is the business of Major Owthwaite, not of Hindu necromancers. And the Major Sahib is more than capable of looking after his responsibilities. When do you expect him back from the frontier?”

  The Nawab expressed no surprise at the Imam’s knowledge. He thought wearily that everyone seemed to know everything that went on in his state.

  The Imam and Major Owthwaite reciprocated liking and respect. Each saw in the other a reflection of himself: not only in physical appearance but in forthrightness of manner. Both, according to their own lights, were God-fearing, honest and moral. Owthwaite, moreover, had a robust contempt for Hindus: nobody who drank cow’s piss could be anything but repulsive and filthy; and the way they treated young wives and widows was something cruel. He would never have taken service in a Hindu state.

  “The Major Sahib should be back tomorrow.”

  “Then hear what he has to say and act according to his advice. If the Raja of Karampur intends to make war on us, right will be on your side; if he is the aggressor. The British will not intervene; unless it is to quell him. If Karampur attacks, do not hesitate to fight.” The Imam bared his huge teeth in jovial approbation. “Despatching a few hundred Sikhs to Hell can only gain you merit in the eyes of Allah. But do not be duped by the Brahmins into striking the first blow.”

  “If we fight the Sikhs it will be a jihad, a holy war.” The fervour in the Nawab’s eyes and in his tone was only in part stimulated by bhang. An encounter with the Imam’s powerful personality invariably rekindled his bigotry.

  The Imam had a final admonition. “How can you believe such tales about Rumgee Sahib? His father, the Karnel Sahib, was my friend and your fa
ther’s friend.” And a threat: “Allah be praised, Ghulam Kasim is a faithful son of the Prophet. The Brahmins know better than to try to poison his mind. His ears are deaf to them. Karnel Rumgee thought highly of him and so does the Resident Sahib.”

  The Nawab said nothing. He had his thoughts: what would the Resident’s superiors think of his lust for very young girls? A letter from Evans to Calcutta would soon blight Carter Sahib’s career if he caused trouble. That, or a smear of grease beside the crocodile tank and an invitation to the Resident to accompany him on a walk along its edge.

  *

  Ramsey returned from the go-down where he kept his stock —all but the firearms — in store, to find six good-looking horses standing in the shade of a tree in front of the bungalow, held by five liveried men who leaped to their feet and salaamed when he appeared. He gave Sikander’s reins to his sais and approached the veranda steps with his eyes on the visitor who awaited him.

  He saw a well set up man whose features seemed familiar: about his own age, neatly moustached and wearing white, calf-hugging Rajput breeches of the type that later generations of British in India would call jodhpurs, a knee-length dark blue tunic and a pale blue pagri with a ruby and diamond ornament on the brow. On his feet were red and gold shoes with curved toes.

  As soon as Ramsey had entered the drive his visitor had risen and gone to the top of the steps to greet him.

  Sher Mahommed Khan had been waiting at the bottom of the steps as usual.

  “Ghulam Kasim has come to pay his respects, Sahib.”

  Ramsey ran up the steps, smiling. He and Ghulam Kasim exchanged salaams, touching breast and forehead in the Muslim form of greeting, and held each other by the shoulders while they both laughed with pleasure at this reunion after nearly two decades. Then Ramsey gripped his old friend’s hand in the European manner.

  “Hugh-ji... brother... I heard you have been ill, so I came to enquire after you.”

  “There is no one whom I would rather see, old friend.”

  Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh were fussing around with cold drinks, biscuits and sweetmeats, a huqqa for the guest.

  “You have good news of your honoured father?”

  “I received a letter yesterday. He is well, praise Allah, and sends you his greetings.”

  “Please give him mine. I hear you have come to Zafarala to make your fortune, Hugh.” It was said with a smile.

  “To seek it, at least, brother.”

  “I was not surprised to hear that you had left the Army. Oh, not merely because of... of recent events. Opportunities to enrich oneself by soldiering are no longer what they were.”

  “There are other reasons for soldiering.”

  “Truly. But I know you would not wish to return to England a poor man.”

  “I hope that is not in my qismat.”

  “What, then, are your plans here?”

  “I have made no definite ones yet.”

  “I hope I can help you. May Allah make you prosper. You have chosen your time well. Changes are afoot in Zafarala. You must have learned that for yourself by now. There is much unrest. People are dissatisfied.”

  “When are men not dissatisfied, Ghulam Kasim? There has been neither famine nor flood for many years. Crops have been good. There has been no epidemic. There have been six or seven years of peace.”

  “You do not have to pretend that you do not understand my meaning. Those are superficial matters. You know well what I mean. Perhaps I should have put it more strongly: when I said ‘dissatisfied’ I should have said ‘disaffected’.”

  “Dilbardashte? For what reason?”

  “I cannot believe that you do not know. Much evil is talked from one end of Zafarala to the other. The people expect trouble.”

  “‘And an evil word is like an evil tree torn up from the face of the earth, and without strength to stand.’”

  “It is good that you know the Holy Quran, brother. But in the same Fourteenth Sura from which you quote it is written ‘Hast thou not beholden those who repay the goodness of God with infidelity, and sink their people into the abode of perdition, Hell? Therein shall they be burned; and wretched the dwelling!’ It is this, Hugh, which makes our people restless and dilbardashte. They fear that my uncle’s dealings with the Brahmins will bring Allah’s retribution on us all.”

  “From what my father told me of the Imam of the Great Mosque, and from what I have heard since coming here, the Imam is a strong enough man to curb your uncle’s indiscretions.”

  “To curb is not to cure. My uncle is weak and will always succumb to the wiles of the Hindus between bouts of repentance and reformation. There can be no real peace, no prosperity or happiness for a country under such rule.”

  “Disaffection leads to bloodshed, which is in itself an evil for a country. Stability has many merits, even if it is an imperfect stability. And after the Nawab would come the Nawabzada, who is too young for such responsibilities.”

  “You know India too well and the history of this state too well, Hugh, to misunderstand my meaning. The people would be no happier or more united under the rule of my cousin than under my uncle. But it is not only of internal strife that men talk, and this you surely know. There are reports, not mere rumours but reports of fact, from the Karampur frontier. The Raja has his eyes on another large portion of our territories. He intends to take advantage of the situation here to strike. He has a strong Army.”

  “You are not without armed retainers yourself, brother. Enough to spare a hundred or so to help your friend Anwar Ali, whom I talked with once in Calcutta, to resist the Nawab’s tax-gatherer.”

  “You know that all revenue-farmers are extortioners.”

  “That may be. But if you provide military diversions and keep a part of the state Army occupied, it makes it easier for the Raja of Karampur to invade.”

  “The end justifies the means. The Nawab has to be defied and forced to change his ways: ideally, to be got rid of altogether.”

  “I am no politician and I have no intention of becoming involved in the state’s internal affairs: not even for old times’ sake or the close friendship of our fathers. You know how precarious is the position of us few Europeans. There are less than a score of us and we are completely at the mercy of the Nawab.”

  “But if I were Nawab, none of you would have anything to fear.”

  “I fear no man as it is, brother. It is not for my own safety that I do not meddle in state matters, it is because I owe it to my business associate in Calcutta and to the British Government.”

  Ghulam Kasim’s face had looked hard and grim during these exchanges. Now it relaxed and he smiled.

  “Old friends... brothers... have other matters of which to speak than politics and war, Hugh.” He gestured to one of his men who had come up to the veranda and was waiting expectantly. The servant put a long package wrapped in embroidered red silk in Ghulam Kasim’s hands. “I have brought you a present, brother.”

  Ramsey took it and unwrapped a beautifully worked scabbard from which protruded an elaborate hilt and pommel. He withdrew a fine Rajput sabre.

  When he had thanked Ghulam Kasim he called to Sher Mahommed Khan. It was a polite convention, for the Pathan, of course, had been eavesdropping from as close as he dared come.

  Ramsey gave him a bunch of keys. “Go and bring a rifle and shotgun.”

  When Sher Mahommed Khan returned, Ramsey told him to put the gun cases down in front of the guest.

  While Ghulam Kasim, flushed with genuine delight, was examining and exclaiming over the guns, Ramsey saw Whittaker ride through the gateway, accompanied by Ruth.

  “Here is a friend of mine, brother, whom I hoped to bring to see you one day. He is my business partner here. He comes from a country further away than England, where many English people have gone to make their homes in the last three hundred years: it is called America.”

  “I have heard of your friend who came lately with his family.”

  “You will find
he speaks Hindustani quite well.”

  “This also have I heard.”

  When Ramsey had made the introductions and seated Ruth at his side, with her father next to Ghulam Kasim, Whittaker said “I have been hoping to meet you one day, Ji. Hugh has told me much about you.”

  “We are bhai band, brothers, Vitker Sahib. I have waited long to embrace Hugh again. Today is a happy one for me.”

  “And for him, I am sure, Ghulam Kasim. And a pleasant one for me, to have the opportunity to meet you.”

  “You are most kind. May Allah grant you a happy and prosperous sojourn in my country.”

  Speaking Urdu, Ramsey said “I have just received this beautiful sword from Ghulam Kasim.”

  Henry and Ruth politely admired it.

  “And Hugh has made me a generous gift of these wonderful guns.”

  “In the hope, brother, that you will devote yourself to shikar in preference to other, more perilous, pursuits.” Ramsey caught Whittaker’s eye as he spoke.

  Ghulam Kasim, with a mocking expression, said blandly “I hope, Sahib, that you and Hugh will come on shikar with me one day soon. Have you tigers in your country... in Umrika?”

  “No tigers. We have a kind of big buffalo.” Whittaker looked at Ramsey. “Bison.”

  “Jangli bhainsa,” Ramsey translated.

  “And big deer we call moose and elks; and bears.”

  “No tigers? Then we must have a tiger shoot as soon as Hugh feels well enough.”

  Ramsey felt well enough and Ghulam Kasim was fully aware of it. It was not health which was the inhibiting factor in future meetings, it was politics.

  Whittaker said “Thank you. I would like that.”

  “You will stay long in Nekshahr?”

  “I hope so. I am a banker, and a sort of partner with Hugh.”

  “You must not judge us all by my uncle the Nawab. Few of my countrymen are as cruel, barbaric and ruthless as he is. I know his diversions have been imposed upon you and your family and caused you great disgust.”

  Whittaker hesitated momentarily, looking at Ramsey for some sign of how best to reply. Ramsey made a small grimace.