*
The Nawab gave a banquet to which all the Europeans and the Whittaker family were invited. He presided over the men’s table while the Nawab Sahiba entertained the ladies in the zenana.
After the feast the Nawab, rollicking drunk, supported by the Nawabzada, tottered at the head of his guests to the pavilion overlooking the yard where the animals were to fight.
Ruth, on Ramsey’s arm, winced when she realised where they were going. “I cannot bear to look. It will be bad enough to have to listen to the poor creatures suffering. Shall I pretend to faint? Then Mother will have to stay with me and we shall both avoid having to be present.”
“I loathe it as much as you do, but the Nawab thinks this is a treat. He would delay the horrid business until you recovered.”
Shakuntala sat in the front row, awaiting the Nawab’s arrival. She rose and turned to greet him. Ruth felt Ramsey falter and heard him draw in his breath. She pressed his arm: she shared something of his feelings. Ramsey had told her about the rumour which had lured Shakuntala back; on her account.
Ruth felt the same oppressive fear that had assailed her on the night in the abandoned house at Mirgaganj; and, earlier, when she had seen the strange business with the vast flock of crows and then with the straw dancing dolls. She could not describe it accurately: it was a sort of mental confusion and physical discomfort. An aura of death hung over the place: which, she told herself, was hardly surprising. There was no reek of blood, and she found it hard to identify it: there was certainly a strong smell of animals, but there was something more besides.
She shivered and clung more tightly to Ramsey’s arm.
Shakuntala looked up at Ramsey and then at Ruth, and smiled. She bowed to the Nawab with her joined hands before her face, the fingertips touching her forehead.
The new Chamberlain, a middle-aged man with a frightened look, had three tigers turned loose in the arena. The onlookers exclaimed, for never before had three of these beasts been sent in together. The Nawab leaned forward with his arms on the rail. The tigers, starved for days, circled each other, then tangled in a snarling, snapping, ripping, tumbling heap.
The Nawab leaned further forward. The gate opened and Khaufnak galloped in, his eyes rolling, ears flat and tongue lolling. The Nawab stood up and began to screech his encouragement.
The horse made straight for the quarrelling tigers, reared and plunged down its forefeet on them. They broke apart, roaring and spitting, and began to prowl round him. He whirled round with them, kicking out with his hind legs. They dodged, but he was too quick and his third kick took one of the tigers in the head and flung it into the centre of the yard with blood running from its skull. Dazed, it sprawled for a moment. The other tigers sprang onto it and began lacerating it with their fangs.
Khaufnak backed towards them and prepared to kick again. The Nawab leaned far over, swaying drunkenly and shouting.
Ramsey saw Shakuntala push him. The Nawab gave a scream as he pitched headfirst over the balcony. He landed flat on his back. He struggled to his feet, with the animals bounding towards him. Khaufnak got there first and with a great lash of his hooves tossed the Nawab high and far across the arena. The Nawab lay still. The horse plunged after him, trampled him, and then the tigers were upon the body, snarling and rending it, flinging blood and viscera all around them: dismembering Sri Hamid Ali Khan Brajindra Bahadur Jang as many men had wished to do.
The Nawab Sahiba, almost toppling off the parda balcony, was shrieking at the bodyguards to seize the murderess.
Shakuntala turned to look at Ramsey for the last time and smiled at him once more. She put her hand to her mouth and he watched her swallow the mako berries she had so carefully picked. By the time the nearest of the bodyguards reached her, she had died.
*
The new Nawab was enthroned the next day, immediately after his father’s funeral pyre had been lit.
The aftaghir, the ceremonial umbrella, was opened over the head of Nawab Sri Murtaza Reza Khan Brajindra Bahadur Jang, and the ceremonial fly whisk, the chauri, second symbol of his status as ruler, was placed in his hand by the Imam.
“Why, Ramsey?” The Resident asked. “You had Zafarala in your hand for the asking. Ghulam Kasim was a favourite of your father’s and highly thought of by us all. It was foolish of him to play that cruel trick on Miss Whittaker, but surely his good qualities merit forgiveness of that one offence? This youth is weak, vicious and will no doubt prove as capricious as his father. With your support, we would be watching Ghulam Kasim mount the gaddi now instead of this unreliable weakling.”
“He is the legal successor, sir. For that reason I would never contemplate supporting Ghulam Kasim against him. If Ghulam Kasim had seized power, you would have had to accept the situation. That would have meant that the British Government gave its recognition to a usurper. The greatest gift we can give India, the finest example we can set, is respect for the law. Besides, there is much that is good in Murtaza’s character. It only needs fostering. He might never be a good ruler, but nor would Ghulam Kasim: no man who did what he did to Ruth can be other than fundamentally bad. At least, sir, the new Nawab cannot be as bad as his father was. With guidance, he will do well enough.”
When the new Nawab had dismissed his ministers and the other guests, he commanded Ramsey and Whittaker to stay.
“Rumgee Sahib, Ooitker Sahib, my father told me your proposals to him. I hereby grant you all that you ask. Rumgee Sahib, I know that my father pressed you to accept the position of Military Adviser. I shall not embarrass you in the same way. My only hope is that you will stay in Zafarala for many years and that, Allah forbid, if the need ever arises again, you will lend Major Owthwaite Sahib the benefit of your military wisdom and skill. I ask no more; and may Allah soon bestow on you the fortune you so amply deserve, to bless your affairs. And now tell me how I should dispose of Anwar Ali.”
“Spare his life, as your father agreed to, Nawab Sahib. But impose a just punishment on him and one that will benefit the state. Tear down the walls that make a fortress of his house. Compel him to disband his armed retainers. Order him to plant indigo and cotton and breed cattle. Impose a huge fine on him that will take ten years to pay.”
The Nawab laughed. “It shall be so. And my cousin, Ghulam Kasim?”
“Compel him also to discharge his private army and make him pay taxes.”
“It shall be done today.”
*
Driving away from the palace, Whittaker lit a cigar and made a broad gesture that took in the whole horizon.
“All ours, Hugh, thanks to you. With Dhala Rao to look after our shipping arrangements, we shall prosper rapidly.”
“And so will Zafarala.”
“Indeed. Now I have a proposition to make. Two, in fact. Am I right in assuming that you are getting around to asking me if you may propose marriage to my daughter? Or, to put it more encouragingly, are Constance and I right in hoping that this is your intention?”
“It has been for a long time.”
“Then, son, consider yourself free to do so. Now, Ruth’s mother and I have no wish to live in your pockets. And, truth to tell, there are certain attractions to life in Calcutta which do not obtain here. After your marriage — I presume the chaplain who accompanied your regiment here can attend to that? — Constance and I will return to Calcutta. I wrote some days ago to MacLean, offering to buy him out, since he is compelled to leave India. That, of course, will liquidate the balance of your debt, as you and I are partners. I shall remain in Calcutta to operate the business there and to pursue my bank’s interests.”
Constance, Ruth and Eleanor Verity were preceding them in another carriage. It turned in at Ramsey’s gate, Ramsey and Whittaker directly behind.
The Veritys’ ayah was squatting on the steps and came running to meet the carriages. She was crying.
Thomas was not there to greet them. Ramsey was out of the carriage before it had stopped.
Eleanor turned to him,
her face as white as though it had been dusted with flour.
“Ayah says Thomas was playing over there, among those bushes, and she was with him, when some men appeared. They threw a cloth over her, which blinded and gagged her, and tied her hands behind her. By the time Sher Mahommed Khan released her, Thomas had gone.”
*
Ramsey, Sher Mahommed Khan and Karim Baksh rode unhindered through the guarded gateway to Ghulam Kasim’s estate. They had not spoken a word on the way here and they rode up the long drive in silence. No sensible man, seeing the grimness of their faces, would have challenged them. The Rajput sabre which Ghulam Kasim had given him hung at Ramsey’s side in place of his Army sword. Karim Baksh had Thomas’s pony on a leading rein.
They heard voices and the drumming of hoofs as they approached the mansion, there was applause with cries of praise and encouragement.
In a paddock at the side of the house, Ghulam Kasim sat a handsome dapple grey. Jumps of various sizes were placed around the paddock. A dozen men stood looking on. And Thomas Verity, on a beautiful piebald pony, was cantering towards one of the obstacles.
The three men rode into the paddock. Thomas caught sight of them and called to Ramsey. “Watch this, Uncle Hugh.”
He put his pony over the jump and trotted it towards Ramsey, looking pleased with himself.
“That was not half bad, Thomas. Now dismount and get up on your own pony.”
“Can’t I have a few more jumps, please?”
“Do as I say, boy, and don’t waste time.”
Ramsey had never spoken sharply to him before and Thomas looked startled. He muttered “Yes, sir,” and slid down from the saddle.
“Karim Baksh will take you home now, Thomas. I shall catch up with you presently.”
Thomas looked puzzled and crestfallen. “All right, Uncle Hugh.”
Ramsey watched them go beyond earshot before he turned his contemptuous look on Ghulam Kasim.
“You make war only on women and children, it seems. I will remain here as hostage for the boy’s safety until I have word that he is home with his mother. Then you and I have matters to settle once and for all.”
“You are no hostage, Hugh, my brother. Go now. You are free. I had the boy brought to me to demonstrate to you how easy it is for me to dispose of any of your friends if I so wish. I meant him no harm. As you saw, he was happy here. All I want is your support in deposing my cousin.”
“Your men must have terrified the child when they attacked his ayah and took him away. Just as they frightened Whittaker Miss-Sahib.” Ramsey swung himself out of the saddle, gave the reins to Sher Mahommed Khan and walked over to Ghulam Kasim. “Get down from there and draw your sword... brother.”
Ghulam Kasim smiled, but there was fear in his eyes and no mirth. “I do not want to kill you, Hugh.”
“You will not. Now come down from the safety of your horse. We shall settle this in the way of my countrymen. But with your sword.” He drew his sabre.
Sher Mahommed Khan’s sword was in his right hand and his rifle in his left. He looked challengingly around. The men gathered about the paddock were scowling and muttering.
Ramsey said “If your men attack, you will be the first to die. And my Pathan brother and I will do great slaughter among the rest of them, who are fit only to terrorise women and children.”
Ghulam Kasim jumped down from his saddle, drew his sword and charged at Ramsey.
While they fought, steel clashing on steel, sparks flying from the ringing blades, their booted feet stamping loudly on the hard ground and short grass, raising dust, their breathing laboured as they grunted with the effort of thrust and parry, lunge and block, Ramsey taunted his adversary.
“So... you have not even the courage to face up to your crimes... you laid the abduction of my betrothed on Anwar Ali... as doubtless you would have done about the boy’s... if I had not known where to come... coward... man of no honour...”
Ghulam Kasim gave a shout and rushed him. His blade ran up Ramsey’s arm, ripping the coat sleeve from wrist to shoulder, baring it and a long cut that oozed blood. The watchers cried in approval.
Instead of falling back, as he had expected, Ramsey counterattacked without a second’s hesitation. He bore down hard on Ghulam Kasim, feinted at his body, drew down his guard, swept the sword from his hand and presented the point of his blade to Ghulam Kasim’s throat.
They stood like that for a full ten seconds, Ramsey expressionless, Ghulam Kasim’s face set in a rictus of fear.
“What are you waiting for, Hugh? You have won. Finish it. I do not fear death.”
“That I doubt. Be it as it may, on one thing I am determined: that henceforth, by Allah, you will fear me. Go down on your knees, brother.” Ghulam Kasim hesitated, growling protests. “Go on.” The sword pricked, drawing a bead of blood from beneath Ghulam Kasim’s chin. He did not budge. “Go on... on your knees.” The blade slid lightly along the side of his neck and a thin streak of blood appeared against the brown skin.
Ghulam Kasim, scowling, went slowly down on one knee. “Both knees, brother.”
Ghulam Kasim swore at him, then lowered the other knee to the ground.
“Now put your hands on the ground and crouch. Like a dog.”
An angry shout went up from Ghulam Kasim’s men and was answered in kind by Sher Mahommed Khan.
Ghulam Kasim shuffled his arms forward, hands on the turf, his arms straight, his weight on them.
Ramsey moved to one side and saw his victim roll his eyes to follow him, sweat dripping from his face.
Just as Ruth had smelled death the evening before at the animal fight, Ramsey smelled the rancid stink of fear now.
He raised the sword with both hands and another shout came from the retainers, another silencing one from Sher Mahommed Khan.
Ramsey swept the sabre down so that it shaved past Ghulam Kasim’s head with a whistle.
He tossed it on the ground.
“Take it back. I need no sword to ride away from here in safety. I shall keep the empty scabbard as a reminder of what a hollow man you are. If you ever regain my friendship and respect, I will accept the sword again.”
Ramsey walked slowly to Sikander, mounted without haste, and he and Sher Mahommed Khan walked their horses all the way to the gate.
When he returned to his bungalow he found not only Eleanor Verity with Thomas and the Whittakers on his veranda, but also the Resident and Dr. Bond with their wives and daughters, Unwin and Thorn.
In front of them all, Ruth raced down the steps and threw her arms around him as he walked forward to claim her.
If you enjoyed reading A Good Soldier, you might be interested in Fighters Up, also by Richard Townsend Bickers and published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Fighters Up by Richard Townsend Bickers
One
Images and sensations; and the cold.
The pictures forming in his mind of violent death and flaming destruction, the icy tremors of his body, the voices - sometimes the screams - in his ears: all formed a pattern, and, he supposed, a kind of crazy rhythm. Every experience, every event and situation, had its own rhythm, and this one was the rhythm of aerial combat.
The memories came whether he was sleeping or awake. If asleep, they roused him with a start and sweating: in bed, or a deep doze in a canvas chair in the pilots’ but out at dispersals, where the Hurricanes and Spitfires stood ranged in their blast pens. They came when he was wide awake: ostensibly reading Flight or The Aeroplane in the dispersal hut, or the Daily Telegraph in the mess ante-room. They recurred even when he was in conversation, or among a group with a pint tankard in his hand in mess or a pub. All it needed to set the images and the sensations going was the glimpse of a face that had shared them, the mention of a name, or some allusion.
“Break! Blue Two, break!”
“Behind you, Simon!”
And his own voice: “Break right, Tug!” “Bandits, two-o’clock, above, coming in.” “Blast you, Ro
bbie, you nearly took my tail off.”
But Robbie had not heard him. When the Hurricane flashed past, Howard saw that it was burning and its pilot was limp, head lolling.
The rhythm of air fighting: attack and defence, thrust and parry in a three-dimensional brawl at over three hundred miles an hour, closing speeds of twice that much.
The rhythm of gunfire from an adversary, coming at him in short bursts: of multi-coloured tracer drawing curved lines across the sky, the bark of cannon and the rattle of machineguns; the cadence of his own shooting and the joyful shock of the bright splashes his incendiaries made when they hit their target; the dazzle from his .303 Brownings and 20 millimetre Hispanos, at first light and dusk, from muzzle flashes and tracer; the wing-overs, half-rolls off the top of a loop, sideslips and stall turns that were the aerobatics of battle; the shrieking of the wind in his gun muzzles when he had blasted their canvas covers off, the howling it made as it tore through the holes that enemy fighters or flak had punched in his Hurricane or Spitfire: these were the kaleidoscopic fragments of sight and sound that composed the pictures and noises which tormented him.
The war would enter its third year in four months’ time. In 1939 - away back in 1939 - four months had been a short period which brought no change to his life; except the addition of several hours’ flying time in his logbook. Now, in the early summer of 1942, four months seemed as long as a peacetime year used to. No operational fighter pilot could delude himself with the certainty that he would live so long.
The mental pictures, lively with their accompanying noises, were sharper now than they had been for six months. R.A.F. Monkston lay only another twenty miles ahead; and it was at Monkston that he was stationed when war broke out.
With his recollections came the physical response that made him shiver as though he were in an unheated cockpit at 30,000 feet, or crouching in a slit trench in Norway while the Germans bombed the airfield. He had always loathed the cold, but those few weeks of the farcical, abortive Norwegian campaign had made his hatred personal, it was so deep; as though Cold were an entity, anthropomorphic, tangible.
A Good Soldier Page 38