A Good Soldier

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  By summoning all their Hindustani and with Ramsey’s help, Constance and Ruth had hired the services of a drummer and taught him to beat time with the fiddle. A piano, brought by a British officer and his wife years ago at the time of the military mission, and left behind when the lady died and her husband’s regiment departed, had been hired from a Parsi. It was in execrable condition, but Constance had tuned it and played it with verve to release Ruth from her fiddle so that she could join in some of the dancing.

  On the lawn a brick hearth had been built, where a charcoal fire burned. An iron grille rested on the bricks, and there steaks, venison, chickens and various game birds were being cooked.

  “It’s what the Spanish call a barbacoa,” Henry Whittaker kept explaining to his guests. “In Mexico they call it a barbacua. It has spread from there to the southern and western areas of America. For my two girls and me it’s a real touch of home: we learned how to cook meat this way when we were out West; and we introduced our friends in Massachusetts to it.”

  Ivy beamed at him. “And now you’ve interjooced it to India, an’ all. I wish my ’ubby was ’ere, he’d be enjoyin’ hisself.” She put a hand on Whittaker’s arm and tugged him. He leaned to hear her low-voiced: “That’s not all you’ve changed ’ere. It’s ever so nice of you to invite all of them. My friends.” She indicated the Evanses and other minor court officials with their wives. “Them snobs look down on us. They ’ave to invite Percy and me sometimes, because of our official position. But they aren’t at all nice to me friends, specially the Eurasians.”

  He smiled at her. “You wait, Mrs Owthwaite. You haven’t seen anything yet. Next party we give, I hope we’ll have made the acquaintance of a lot more good people. And it’s our aim to invite along some of the Indians as well.”

  “Oh!” Her face fell. “All of us see enough of them. And they’re always so awkward, know what I mean? Oh, no, you don’t want to ’ave them, not bloomin’ niggers. Tha ’ud spoil it.”

  *

  The audience Ramsey had requested for Whittaker and himself with the Nawab had been set for mid-morning. There was a noticeable excitement in the Nawab’s manner. The Dewan, in contrast, seemed subdued.

  “My son has been practising with the rifle you kindly gave him, Rumgee Sahib.”

  “He shot well when I went with him to the butts, Your Highness.”

  “He looks up to you, you know. You are his great hero.”

  “That is gratifying but undeserved.”

  “It is well merited. I, too, think highly of you; and so does the Dewan. Is that not so?”

  The Dewan did not look, at that moment, as though he thought well of anybody or anything; but he gave an affirmative waggle of his head. “As I admired your father and grandfather, Rumgee Sahib.”

  “They had achieved much, Dewan Sahib.”

  “And so have you,” the Nawab said. “To rout a gang of Thag is alone a feat for my court poet to write an epic to celebrate. You are a great loss to the Army of the Sarkar. What a fine Military Adviser you would make, what a great commander of my troops in battle.”

  “You flatter me, Your Highness. May I ask when you expect the Nawabzada to return?”

  “He will not be away for long. Long enough only to give him some experience of commanding a small garrison: to find his feet as a military officer.”

  The conversation made its way through the mandatory small talk and compliments of polite usage, until the moment when Ramsey could, without discourtesy, introduce the topic which was the purpose of the audience.

  “And are you two gentlemen finding your stay here all that you would wish?”

  “Whittaker Sahib and I beg your approval for some ventures we wish to pursue together, Your Highness. Ventures which will be of direct benefit to the state.”

  The Nawab smiled, but there was no kindness and not much geniality in it. “I am the state.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. What we propose will benefit your subjects.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  When Ramsey had concluded, with frequent questions from both the Nawab and the Dewan, they sat in silence for a while.

  “There seems much wisdom in what you say, Rumgee Sahib... Ooitker Sahib. I shall discuss the matter fully with the Dewan and you and I can talk again. There is still my original suggestion to you to be resolved.” He looked directly at Ramsey. “Major Owthwaite is feeling the weight of his years. It would be a kindness to remove the burden of responsibility from him. What you have just told me has impressed me greatly. You are much cleverer than the Major Sahib. You have a wise partner who could look after your commercial interests. You could assume the function of Military Adviser and give only part of your time to it, with enough to spare for your business affairs.”

  “Your Highness overwhelms me with your compliments. Perhaps we should defer the matter until the Major Sahib’s return, when we can speak of it frankly in his presence. I am sure Your Highness would not wish to make any commitments behind Major Owthwaite’s back.”

  The Nawab grinned his perfidious grin. “If you were to accept the appointment of Military Adviser, I would have no difficulty in making my decision about granting permission for your business ventures.”

  “Your Highness is the soul of generosity. There is one other matter I would like to bring before your attention.”

  The Nawab gave signs of impatience. “What?”

  “I wish you to know that I intend to visit Anwar Ali this evening. You would doubtless be informed and I would not wish you to suspect my loyalty.”

  “I would not suspect anyone bearing your name of disloyalty to the legally established power. But what business have you with that rebellious scoundrel?”

  “In confidence, Your Highness, I have evidence that he was responsible for the destruction of my go-down.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Enough to satisfy me, when coupled with other events in Calcutta before my departure.”

  “You are sure that Anwar Ali will permit you to set foot on his land?”

  “I have received an invitation. Such is his insolence.”

  “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “To extract a confession from him.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “He will certainly deny my accusations and I shall as certainly force an admission from him.”

  The Nawab broke into loud laughter. “That I can believe. You will take your two sipahi with you, no doubt. What chance will Anwar Ali have against three such men? Allah go with you. Kill the rascal for me or, better, bring him to me to punish.”

  *

  Ramsey had sent a message to Anwar Ali warning him of his visit. Behind him, Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh, rode the sais who would hold their horses while they entered Anwar Ali’s house. All three carried a shotgun in a holster by the right knee.

  Two hours’ ride took them to the boundary of the estate. The house was something of a fortress. It was surrounded by a high wall in the form of a square, with a crenulated tower at each corner. It had been built on an island in a swift-flowing river and was accessible only by a pontoon bridge, of which any pair of boats on which the boardwalk rested could be easily removed.

  They were admitted through stout gates guarded by two men. Anwar Ali welcomed them at his front door. He looked askance at the swords and pistols that Ramsey and his two ex-sepoys wore.

  “You come armed like the Nawab’s tax-gatherers, Huzur.”

  “We shall have to ride home through the dark, Anwar Ali.”

  “Any dacoits who assaulted the Sahib would be foolish indeed.”

  “You do not object to my brothers accompanying me indoors?”

  Anwar Ali looked amused at Ramsey’s use of the term. Any close friend was referred to as a brother. In the Sepoy Army, when there was a special bond between officer and man it was common usage. In this instance, it made it difficult to object to their presence. But he essayed a gesture.

  “Is this
not to be a private conversation, Sahib?”

  “Of course. They can wait outside the room.”

  Which was unexceptionable. Men of standing were customarily attended by retainers. There was no reason why these should not wait outside the house, but there was nothing unusual in a conceit that insisted on their proximity.

  The room to which Anwar Ali took Ramsey was marble-floored and sumptuously furnished with low couches, fat cushions and thick carpets. Servants brought sweetmeats, pastry filled with curry, sherbets and tea. The conversation was polite, formal, trite. Ramsey declined food. He could not eat his enemy’s salt and then do what he had come for. He accepted tea, served in one of the fine china cups which MacLean imported.

  Anwar Ali mentioned the attack by the river pirates. When he had followed the same route, shortly afterwards, it was the talk of the riverbank for many miles up and downstream.

  “You and your two ex-soldiers are heroes, Sahib. Together, you are a match for thirty men.”

  There was no harm in impressing him with the fact, thought Ramsey. It would make his present task easier and lead conveniently to what he had to say as soon as possible.

  “On the road here we were tricked by a band of Thag. We took them for honest travellers.” Anwar Ali exclaimed his astonishment. “Sher Mahommed Khan saw a group of them stealthily leave the camp with pickaxes. Being a Pathan, he followed them. He came back and told me they had dug a big ditch. Later, when we were all seated around the fire, it came to my mind that these men must be Thag and the ditch a grave. I warned my two companions and when the Thag pounced on us we were ready for them.”

  Anwar Ali was full of admiration. “You killed them all, Huzur?”

  “Most of them.”

  “By Allah, you three are a veritable army.”

  Ramsey had timed his visit so that darkness would fall soon after his arrival. This not only made the carrying of arms plausible but also would provide cover for his party’s withdrawal. He could not postpone the moment of action much longer.

  “Anwar Ali, there is a matter of great gravity about which I must speak to you.”

  “I am at your service, Huzur.”

  “How well do you really know MacLean Sahib?”

  “I have done business with him for many years.”

  “That is not what I asked you. However, to avoid prevarication: I suspect him of being my enemy.”

  “But he is your friend, Sahib, and your father’s friend.”

  “That is what makes his conduct so infamous: that he took advantage of me because my father admitted him to his friendship.”

  “I am listening.” There was no warmth in the remark.

  “MacLean Sahib invited me to be his partner, which meant that he and I would share all financial risks equally. He invited a man to his table, as a fellow guest with myself, whom he knew was certain to insult me. The insult was uttered. I challenged the man to a duel...”

  “Bal pariksha?” If this was not the first time Anwar Ali had heard of it, he was putting on a good act of incredulity.

  “Yes. He refused to fight. MacLean knew he would, if challenged. MacLean then contrived — as I now realise — a quarrel with me. He provoked me by his words. He knows I am hot-tempered in matters of honour...”

  “Hai mai, the izzat of an officer!” Anwar Ali gesticulated and tossed his head.

  “I threatened him, as he must have known I would. This gave him the excuse to break his word to me. Thus, the unpaid-for goods that were stolen from me on the way here are to my sole charge instead of being shared equally with him. Likewise those lost in the go-down fire.”

  Anwar Ali gesticulated again and made sounds of regret.

  “The man who had insulted me was set upon one night on his way home and severely beaten. The insinuation was that I had set Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh onto him. MacLean tried to get me to flee from Calcutta immediately: hoping that I would thus give the impression of guilt. Obviously it was he who had hired two ruffians to commit this crime.”

  Anwar Ali sighed and shook his head. His deploring of the artifice was not convincing. There was a wary look in his eyes. “How could such things be, Sahib? Surely you are mistaken?”

  Ramsey’s right forearm was lying, in a natural position, across his lap. His hand unobtrusively gripped his sword hilt.

  “He must have had an accomplice.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he would need an intermediary to find and bribe the two ruffians.”

  That, no one could deny. A white man would have been too conspicuous; and the two criminals would certainly have blackmailed him.

  “You have proof of this?”

  “Not of that crime. But I have proof against the man who set fire to my go-down. And against him who ordered it to be done.”

  Anwar Ali stiffened. “What proof?”

  “Eye witnesses. But we will come to that in a moment. First admit that you are in collusion with MacLean to ruin me.”

  Anwar Ali began to rise to his feet. “You have outstayed your welcome in my house.”

  Ramsey drew his sword.

  The stood facing each other.

  “MacLean bribed you to hire those two cut-throats in Calcutta. You had my go-down burned to the ground by men whom you threatened with starvation to their families.”

  Anwar Ali had been retreating, dagger in hand, while Ramsey accused him. Ramsey made no attempt to follow.

  “Help! I am being murdered... come quickly...”

  Two doors swung open and crashed against the wall. Through one, three men came running, carrying staves, knives and pistols.

  Through the other came Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh, each with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  Anwar Ali retreated behind his protectors. Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh rushed at them. The air rang with shouts of challenge and defiance, with the clash of swords and staves, grunts of exertion and the hiss of laboured breathing.

  Ramsey saw his friends cut down two of their opponents.

  Three shots blasted and echoed. Men shouted. Running footsteps approached and two more men dashed into the room. Gunpowder smoke hung in the air.

  Ramsey darted at Anwar Ali and presented the point of his sword to his throat. Cries and groans rose above the sound of combat. Two of Anwar Ali’s men lay motionless. The others were slumped against the wall, sobbing as they clutched their wounds. Two more men ran in.

  Ramsey lowered his sword and prodded Anwar Ali on his belt. “You are coming with us. Move!”

  Anwar Ali’s right hand appeared from a pocket, holding a pistol. He leaped back and as he did so he flung his dagger at Ramsey. Ramsey turned, but too late. He felt it slice into his upper arm. He ducked at the instant that Anwar Ali fired. The ball went over his head. He heard it whistle past and felt its draught. Anwar Ali’s left hand whipped down. He drew a second pistol and aimed.

  Ramsey acted instinctively. He slashed at Anwar Ali’s wrist. He felt his blade jar against bone. The severed hand fell to the floor as the pistol fired. Anwar Ali screamed, clutching the stump of his right forearm, blood spurting between his fingers.

  Ramsey took him by the shoulder and propelled him through the door. They had to fight their way to the front door. He shot a man who came at him with a cutlass upraised. He heard his two henchmen fire their second pistols. He ran a man through with his sword. He kept shoving the groaning and cursing Anwar Ali ahead of him.

  Then they were on the front steps and Anwar Ali was stumbling down them in the darkness. Ramsey and the sais hoisted him onto the sais’s horse. The sais mounted behind him and took the reins. The other three leaped to the saddle. It was pitch dark. The moon had not risen and the stars were obscured by cloud. They cantered away with bullets humming past. Lamps moved erratically outside the house and voices were raised as men took up the pursuit.

  They still had to pass through the gate.

  They were upon the gatekeepers before they
knew it. Ramsey felt hands dragging him from the saddle. His left arm was sending waves of pain through him and becoming numb. There was a fierce, grunting struggle. He slashed wildly with his sabre. There were more than two men at the gate. A shotgun, loaded with heavy pellets, blasted them aside. Karim Baksh shouted that he had opened the gate. They clattered through, onto the bridge. Ramsey and Sher Mahommed Khan fired their shotguns at the pursuers.

  When they had crossed the bridge they drew rein. Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh dismounted and slashed the ropes mooring the last pontoon boat. The current swept the bridge away. They heard horsemen thud onto the far end and then, shouting, hurriedly retreat.

  They took bandages from a saddlebag and put a tourniquet on Anwar Ali’s arm, then swathed it and put it in a sling.

  Ramsey took off his coat and had his arm bound up. From the far bank came the flash and explosion of random pistol and gun shots. None came near them.

  With Ramsey leading the way, the sais and Anwar Ali behind him, and the others on either flank of the prisoner, they cantered off towards Nekshahr.

  *

  Dr. Bond attended to the two wounded men. At the Resident’s request, the Dewan came to the Residency. The Resident, the Dewan, Ramsey and Whittaker took Anwar Ali to the palace. The Nawab expressed his delight in Ramsey through fumes of brandy. His Chamberlain had mysteriously disappeared. No matter. The man had been acting as though he were demented. He seemed to be in constant terror. It had affected his work. His family had no idea what could have befallen him. This time, a good Mussalman must fill the post.

  In return for the Nawab’s promise that his life would be spared, on Ramsey’s insistence, Anwar Ali, too feeble to resist, in pain, suffering from shock and loss of blood, made a deposition confessing his guilt and MacLean’s. Mr. Evans, the Chief Writer, recorded it in duplicate in Urdu and English. All four copies were signed by Anwar Ali and, in witness, by the Dewan and the Resident.

  The Nawab sent Anwar Ali to the dungeons beneath the palace. He would pronounce sentence later. He agreed to allow Dr. Bond to attend the prisoner.