Sword of Empire

by Christopher Nicole

  At the same time Onslow led his horsemen forward.

  From the oasis there came a volley, and several of the Sepoys fell. Suddenly, there was firing from the Baluchi right, and shouts of surprise and anger as Abbas Ali Khan sent his people through the trees to fall on Batraj’s rear.

  The Sepoys charged. Guy drew his sword and dashed forward to be in at the kill.

  *

  When he saw his men fall, and Abbas Ali Khan, tulwar drawn, waving his people forward, Batraj thought he would explode with rage and frustration. But then his habitual good sense took over. This battle was lost thanks to his son-in-law’s treachery, but he would live to fight another day, and would have his revenge.

  ‘Shoot them down!’ he bellowed at his wavering men. ‘Shoot them down.’

  He dashed into the trees, threw himself down as if hit, and began to crawl unseen back towards the village as the Sepoys reached the oasis.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the houses. He went first to the house where the women were.

  ‘Where is Sivitraj?’ he demanded of Mary.

  ‘He went outside. What is happening, Father?’

  ‘Your husband has betrayed me,’ Batraj said. ‘I will have my revenge.’

  He leapt at her, swinging his tulwar. Mary screamed and hurled herself across the room.

  ‘Father!’ she shouted. ‘I am your daughter!’

  He stood over her. ‘You are a hateful thing,’ he snarled, ‘a creature of that she-devil’s womb! You are no daughter of mine!’

  He grasped her hair and dragged her head back. She screamed again. Sharita sprang across the room, and pulled at her father-in-law’s sword arm. He turned and lunged furiously at her, his tulwar slashing across her throat. For a moment, Sharita looked down at the gushing blood in total bewilderment. Then her knees gave way and she hit the ground, dead.

  Mary screamed again as Batraj turned back to her, murder in his eyes. Then the door burst open, and Sivitraj rushed in, a tulwar in his left hand.

  ‘You shall die too,’ Batraj spat, and struck at him. Sivitraj defended himself as best he could, but was hampered by his injured arm, and in any event he was no match for his stepfather as a swordsman. He was forced against the wall of the hut, while the women huddled in the corner.

  ‘I shall leave all of that viper’s brood for her to weep over,’ Batraj snarled, as Sivitraj’s sword fell from his fingers.

  But the doorway was darkened again. Guy Bartlett stood there, a pistol in one hand, his sword in the other.

  ‘Drop the tulwar, Batraj,’ Guy said, ‘or you are a dead man.’

  Batraj hesitated. Sivitraj threw himself forward, striking the weapon from his stepfather’s hand, then picked it up and swung it threateningly.

  ‘No,’ Guy snapped.

  ‘He killed my wife!’

  ‘You cannot kill an unarmed man,’ Guy told him. ‘That would be murder, a crime of which your stepfather is guilty, and for which he will pay, according to British justice. You have my word.’

  *

  Laura waited in the hall of the Fishers’ Bombay house and watched Sivitraj crossing the floor towards her. She made herself stand absolutely still until he had reached her, then she could take him in her arms.

  ‘Your shoulder...’

  ‘It is healed.’ He demonstrated the ease with which he could move it. ‘I have spoken with the Governor, Mother,’ he said. ‘He now accepts that I was kidnapped, in 1828, and was therefore prevented from taking my proper place as Rajah of Sittapore, and that I have been prevented from returning ever since. He has agreed that Partaj should be set aside, although left as heir to my throne until I have a son of my own.’ His face twisted, and Laura knew he was thinking of Sharita.

  ‘I am so pleased for you,’ she said.

  ‘There is a proviso,’ he added, watching her face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Governor-General considers it would be unwise for you to return, in view of your escape from suttee. You knew of this?’

  She nodded. ‘I was told as soon as I arrived here. I shall not go back to Sittapore. I shall make my home in Bombay. Perhaps you will be able to visit me from time to time. Is there news of Mary?’

  ‘She has remained with her husband. I am sure she would like to see you, should you decide to revisit Hyderabad.’ Sivitraj drew a long breath. ‘Prince Batraj has asked to see you.’

  Laura glanced at Guy, seeking guidance.

  ‘The decision is yours,’ he said. ‘I can at least promise that you will be well protected.’

  Laura hesitated. She had suffered at Batraj’s hands for fifteen years. Yet he was the father of her daughter, even if that daughter was now irrevocably lost to her. She had hated him; she hated him still. Yet he had lived for an ideal, and fought for it; now he had been condemned to death for it.

  And he was her husband.

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  *

  It was the most miserable time of the year. The monsoon winds blew, and successive rainsqualls swept across Bombay.

  The gaol was always a depressing place, but in the monsoon it became a reeking quagmire. Laura held her skirts above her ankles as she squelched through the mud beneath an umbrella held by Guy. Her boots and stockings were soaked through by the time she reached the outer office.

  The English warden was waiting for them. ‘Do you wish to see your husband alone, Your Highness?’ he inquired. Again Laura looked at Guy for guidance.

  ‘As long as he is secured, and we can see what is happening,’ Guy said.

  ‘Of course,’ the warden agreed.

  They were shown into a room, bare save for a table and two chairs, with a barred window looking out at yet another courtyard. The air was heavy with the stench of the prison, and they could hear screams and shouts, the steady rhythm of a whip.

  Laura shuddered.

  ‘They need discipline,’ the warden said with a cold smile.

  The door opened and four men came in, marching Batraj between them. He wore a dhoti and nothing more, and there were recent weals on his shoulders; his wrists were manacled behind his back.

  The gaolers stepped away and stood against the far wall. The warden also withdrew.

  Batraj looked at Guy. ‘Can I not speak with my wife?’

  ‘You may,’ Guy said. ‘But I shall remain in the room, and if you attempt to touch her...’

  Batraj smiled bitterly. ‘You will shoot me down. Would that not be a better death than hanging?’

  ‘You are going to die by hanging, Your Highness,’ Guy told him.

  He went to stand with the four guards.

  Batraj looked at Laura. ‘Will you not sit down?’

  Laura allowed her knees to give way, and sank into a chair. Batraj also sat, on the far side of the table.

  ‘Were you at my trial?’

  The Company authorities had decided not to tread the risky legal ground of calling Laura as a witness; although she and Batraj had never been married according to Christian ritual, nevertheless Batraj claimed her as his wife, and it might have provided grounds for an appeal against the sentence. In any event, they had secured sufficient depositions from captured Thugs to convict him, and this had been done.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘But you know that I am to die, by hanging.’

  ‘And now you are afraid,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yes, I am afraid. It is a shameful way to die, for a warrior. Why do they not give me a sword and let me die like a man?’

  ‘Did you give all the people you murdered the chance to die like men?’

  ‘They are afraid to give me a sword,’ Batraj went on. ‘Because they are afraid that I shall die like a hero, and become a legend to my people. But I will yet be a legend. Prince Batraj will be remembered, and remembered too, on the day that the British are finally driven out of India.’

  ‘That day will never come,’ Laura told him. ‘You will be forgotten.’

  ‘Laura,’ he s
aid. Did you never love me at all?’

  ‘You saved my life, once,’ she said. ‘I have always been grateful for that.’

  She rose and left the room.

  *

  Laura heard footsteps in the hall, and rose from the window-seat, her heart pounding.

  Jenny came in first, stripping off her gloves.

  ‘Well?’ Laura asked.

  Jenny shrugged. ‘It seems such a...such a to-do, for something that is finished in five minutes. Less.’

  ‘Was it...did he...?’

  ‘He actually seemed quite composed. Just before they put the noose round his neck he shouted something about India, but I don’t think very many people heard what he said. Oh, Laura...’ she held her hands as tears sprang to Laura’s eyes. ‘I know, only too well, that you were forced to live as his wife, but he was dreadfully evil.’

  ‘I know,’ Laura said.

  Guy was hovering in the doorway. ‘It is all over,’ he said. She shrugged.

  He hesitated, then smiled at her. ‘It has stopped raining. No-one ever goes to the beach during the monsoon. But I wondered if you would like to walk...Rufus the Second would like to meet you.’

  Bombay, 1 September 1843

  Six months ago I brought Batraj to heel; three months ago I saw him hang.

  One month ago I received my brigade or, to be more precise, the rank; I am now commander of the Bombay garrison.

  Two weeks ago Regina gave birth to six handsome pups; Rufus the Second is delighted, as am I.

  And one week ago, Laura and I were married. I doubt there is a happier couple in all India.

  Much as we would like to return home, we shall be remaining in Bombay for the foreseeable future. Here our various adventures are known, appreciated, and understood. We are not sure this would be the case in England.

  Besides, there is a great deal to be done. When I compare the state of India now with when I arrived here, a callow youth, eighteen years ago...The whole vast sub-continent is at our mercy, but has also become our responsibility. All of the Deccan is ours save for the dominions of the Nizam of Hyderabad, but he accepts our dominance in everything. Bengal and all of the east of the country are directly under our rule, as are Sind and Baluchistan in the west. In the north, the Mughal Emperor still rules in Delhi, but by virtue of our bayonets, and at the behest of our Commissioners. Rajasthan and Rajputana remain ruled by native princes, but as our clients. We are about to undertake a war to bring the proud Sikhs to heel. I have not volunteered for this conflict, as I feel I have played my part in the conquest of India, and wish to spend as much time as possible with my wife: I have no doubt that the campaign, which is to be conducted by Hugh Gough, will be entirely successful.

  When Kashmir and the Punjab are ours, all the lands south of the great mountain barriers, the Himalayas and the Hindu Kush, will be subservient to Great Britain, save only for the tiny mountain kingdoms of Nepal and Bhutan, and they will understand their dependance on the all-prevailing power of the Company.

  This is truly an Empire we have created for ourselves.

  Its story is mine and Laura’s. Our love is as hard-forged as India’s frontiers, and as impregnable. Built to last, my wife laughs.

  How little I thought when, as a boy, I dreamed of fine adventures, that I would experience such extremes of defeat and victory, of pride and shame, of hate and, most importantly, of love? Laura and I have earned our happiness, we have paid for it in blood and tears.

  It has taken us nearly twenty years to win it.

  If you enjoyed reading Sword of Empire, you might be interested in Sword of Fortune by Christopher Nicole, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Sword of Fortune by Christopher Nicole

  Diary of Miss Barbara Smythe, 26 June 1779

  The ropes have been cast away, the sails are filling; the whole ship has suddenly become filled with life.

  She is an East Indiaman, and her name is James Turner. I always thought ships were named after women!

  Ahead of us lies the English Channel, then the Bay of Biscay, then the Atlantic, and then the Cape of Good Hope and the Arabian Sea, before we reach Bombay. Captain Reid says the voyage is ten thousand miles!

  My heart flutters; so does my stomach. Will I be seasick? Mrs Crosbie says it is no uncommon thing.

  But perhaps it’s merely that my stays are laced too tight. Mrs Crosbie says they do not wear stays in Bombay!!!!

  The shore is receding now. Shall I ever see England again, or shall I spend the rest of my life ‘under the Pagoda Tree’, as Uncle Jonathan so quaintly puts it.

  I have never heard of the pagoda tree. I must ask Uncle Jonathan to point it out to me.

  Do I grieve for Papa? To have sat for a week holding his poor hand as he lay dying is an experience I shall not readily forget. But, since my thoughts are my own, I cannot pretend not to be excited.

  Uncle Jonathan is a powerful man in Bombay, a senior factor in the East India Company, and I am his heiress. How can I not be excited?

  Bombay! India! Uncle Jonathan writes that it is the most exciting place on earth, and I believe him. He says it is a place of palaces and temples such as I shall never have seen before, indeed not imagined. And there are elephants! And tigers!

  And young men! Uncle Jonathan writes that I shall soon make a suitable marriage, that as an heiress, I shall be the cynosure of all ambitions! How I do adore handsome men in uniform! Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Lucy are to hold a great ball for me, he says. I do love balls! Uncle Jonathan writes ‘morals in Bombay are, thank God, on an altogether higher plane than in London.’ What does an old man know of morals? How old is Uncle Jonathan? At least forty, I am sure.

  Although I have noticed several passable-looking young men, I suspect that opportunities for privacy on board this ship will be very limited. And there is always Mrs Crosbie!

  I must make every effort to practise the art of flirting before we—

  Oh dear! I am definitely going to be sick!

  1: Under the Pagoda Tree

  The village lay in a large cleared area, some hundred yards from the surrounding forest. The cleared area was for protection, from marauding tigers not less than marauding men. The village, shaded only by a few huge mango trees, shimmered in the fierce heat of South India.

  It consisted of some two dozen houses, mean, shambling affairs with thatched roofs and beaten earth floors. Several women clustered round the communal fire over which various iron pots were suspended from a spit; the still air was heavy with the scent of turmeric and coriander, cardamom and garlic.

  Naked children played in the dust among a sorry-looking scatter of goats and chickens. Some of the cleared land was under cultivation, painfully irrigated by a shallow stream of mud that meandered across the clearing.

  There were no men to be seen.

  ‘Damnation,’ growled Ford. ‘They knew we were coming.’

  Richard Bryant reached for the flap of white cloth which hung from his hat to protect his neck, and wiped away the sweat. Even in the shade it was very hot, and the still, humid air clung around the trees and the cloying undergrowth like warm water.

  There were twenty men in the party. Eighteen of them were Indians: fifteen sepoys of the Company’s army, two naiks, or corporals, and a havildar, or sergeant. And there were two white men. Lieutenant Ford wore, like his men, a red jacket and white trousers; a white kepi with its sun flap, and black boots, now stained dust-coloured after the march from Bombay. A sword hung at his side, and he also carried a pistol.

  Richard Bryant, being a clerk—or writer, as it was known in the Company—wore a black suit, with a white stock and shirt, now sadly sweat-stained, and incongruous beneath a straw hat. He carried no sword, but had been given a pistol, together with a warning not to use it save in the last extremity, for fear he might do himself an injury. The fools had no idea that he could have shot the eye out of any one of them at twenty paces. To think that he had always envied the soldiers, dreamed of being
one of them, of wearing a smart uniform, carrying gleaming weapons! Until, that is, he had actually accompanied them into the field, watched and heard them tramp through the jungle like a herd of elephants.

  ‘There can’t be an Indian within fifty miles that doesn’t know we’re here,’ he remarked.

  Ford snorted. Civilian clerks were a necessary evil on a tax detail. But they were expected to know their place. This abrasive newcomer was too cocky by half; in the three days they had been away from Bombay he had questioned every decision, criticised every disposition.

  Richard had only been in India a year, and at nineteen was still very much a junior clerk. He had had to lobby like the devil for weeks before obtaining permission to accompany a tax-gathering detail, not only to break the unutterable monotony of life in Bombay but also to obtain his first glimpse of the hinterland which lay across the harbour, beyond Elephanta Island.

  ‘What do you intend to do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Collect taxes,’ Ford said curtly.

  ‘But there are only women…’

  ‘Oh, we shall play them at their own game,’ Ford said. ‘By God we will.’

  Ford was a chunky young man in his mid-twenties. His face was brick-red, due as much to the amount of port he drank each night as to exposure to the sun. He sweated even more than his men; his red jacket was stained maroon at the armpits and down the back.

  But he considered himself superior to most men, certainly superior to Richard Bryant, who despised him. As a junior clerk, Richard was almost beneath notice. He resented this, when on every side he could see the incompetence of such men as Lieutenant Ford.

  Richard was tall and muscularly slender, his hair black, heavy and straight. His face was long and thin, but the set of the jaw and firmness of the mouth indicated a man who knew his own mind. Too much so, perhaps, for his age. His eyes were amber, and thoughtful. He had been fortunate enough thus far to escape the malaria which wasted so many once-powerful bodies. He was contemptuously determined, too, to resist the temptation to drink himself insensible every night, though there was little else to do with one’s evenings, unless one happened to be married. That was not something for a penniless writer to contemplate.