Sword of Empire

by Christopher Nicole

  It was not something he was likely to do, Richard thought bitterly, save from sheer boredom. India was considered the most exotic and exciting place in the world with its veiled women, armoured warriors, painted elephants, walled cities waiting to fall to the clash of arms, chests of gold into which one could thrust one’s arms to the elbows…how different was the reality. The age of Clive had died when the Company had announced that there were to be no more alliances and adventures with native princes. The French gone, the British were left with an empire on their hands, something the board of directors in London had never contemplated; their business was trade, not conquest. While they understood that they could hardly now withdraw from territories they had appropriated during the French wars, they were determined that there was to be no more expansion.

  Richard was rapidly convincing himself that he could only hope to win glory, if not riches as a soldier. Meanwhile, he must slave away as a humble clerk here in Bombay.

  The island was probably the most over-crowded place on earth. It seethed, and stank. Offices and warehouses jostled against Hindu temples and Muslim mosques. The factors’ houses were set apart, on the cool shore facing the Arabian Sea; the bungalows of the juniors huddled together on the hot side, close by the bazaar.

  Even as he looked, Richard could see an elephant at work. No romantic carrier of mailed warriors this, but a decrepit, mud-coloured beast, whose every moment disturbed layers of dust, goaded by a no-less-filthy mahout to carry timber into position for the building of yet another house.

  *

  Forsythe had not yet returned from the office, and Richard was greeted by his ‘boy’, Hanif, with an open bottle of wine. He felt he needed it after his trek through the bush.

  ‘You ready bath time, sahib?’ Hanif inquired, surveying his master’s jungle-stained and thorn-torn clothes.

  ‘When I have practised,’ Richard said.

  He was tired from the unusual exercise of the past three days, but his brain was teeming. He went through the bungalow, a one-storied building which contained only four rooms and a verandah, and out into the small back yard. Hanif hurried behind him with sword and pistols; he knew his master’s habits.

  Richard removed his coat and cravat, turned up his sleeves, and made several passes with the sword at the wooden target, carved by Hanif and representing a man’s body, that hung against the mango tree which dominated the small garden.

  As he cut and thrust, he had no idea if he was doing anything right. He wondered what it would be like to face an armed man—he had hoped to experience that on the tax detail, rather than torment a half-naked woman—but at least it made him familiar with the weight and feel of the weapon.

  The pistols had been a farewell gift from his father, who did not expect ever to see him again. Richard sheathed the sword, and took his place twenty paces away from the target, the pistol hanging at his side. He counted to five, and then raised the weapon, sighting and firing in virtually the same instant. A piece of wood flew from the target’s left side. Hanif hurried forward with the second pistol, and this time the bullet smashed into the very centre of the already pitted wooden frame.

  ‘You’re going to have to carve me another of those, Hanif,’ Richard said with some satisfaction. Practising every day for nearly a year had made him into an expert shot. Again, he had no idea what it would feel like actually to face a man, also armed, but he did not suppose that was ever likely to happen.

  While he soaked in his bath, Albert Forsythe came in. He was a short, slender, fair-haired man in his early twenties, with blue eyes and a sparkling smile. He did not suffer from inordinate ambition, nor did he appear to dream overmuch. He was a happy fellow, who took life exactly as it came.

  ‘Heard the shooting,’ he said. ‘Guessed you were back. Any excitement?’

  Richard told him of Ford’s treatment of the woman.

  ‘Vile. But I’ll wager Ford enjoyed it.’

  ‘He did,’ Richard said grimly. ‘Do you think Smythe knows what goes on? I wish I’d had the stomach to tell him.’

  ‘You can thank God you didn’t. Of course he knows. He’s probably torn a tit or two himself in his time.’

  ‘God, I hate this stinking place,’ Richard muttered, reaching for his towel as he stood up.

  Albert frowned at him. ‘Hate the Pagoda Tree? My dear fellow, what else is there? You need a drink.’

  He poured some wine.

  Richard dried himself. ‘You know what I have a mind to do? Enlist.’

  ‘You can’t just enlist. You have to be selected.’

  ‘I meant as a private soldier.’

  Albert drank. ‘Has the sun turned your mind?’

  ‘Anything is better than sitting in an office all day. Or watching women’s breasts being ripped off. There’d be some chance of advancement. Aren’t we campaigning against the Marathas?’

  ‘Not very effectively. Better than sitting in an office? Ever slept twenty in a small barracks in the heat? Ever been flogged?’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Richard protested.

  ‘It happens too often. And you’d have vermin like Ford deciding when.’

  Richard had no answer to that. Albert changed the subject. ‘I heard today that the GG is paying us a visit.’

  ‘Hastings? Whatever for?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘I suppose he feels it necessary to visit the other presidencies from time to time. Why don’t you have a chat with him, see if he can give you a place in Calcutta? You might like it better there.’

  Richard scratched his nose. ‘You think he’d grant me an interview?’

  ‘Why not, if you put your name down right away? Mind you, Smythe won’t be pleased. Junior clerks only seek interviews with the Governor-General if they’re very unhappy about something.’

  ‘Smythe doesn’t like me anyway,’ Ricahrd told him. ‘So what have I to lose?’

  *

  Warren Hastings was forty-seven years old, a somewhat insignificant-looking man, with an almost bald head—it was too hot in India to wear a wig—a long nose, and a tight mouth and chin. As had General Clive, he had begun his adult life as a Company writer and, by sheer ability, had worked his way upwards until being appointed Governor-General of all the presidencies. The climb had not been an easy one. Hastings had made enemies by his high-handed methods and his habit of taking decisions without consulting his council as he was legally required to do. One quarrel had even resulted in a duel. With Philip Francis, in which fortunately neither man had been hurt. Francis had since returned to England, and it was rumoured that he was seeking to have the Governor-General charged with all manner of crimes and misdemeanours. No one supposed he would get very far, at least as long as Hastings kept vast profits steadily flowing into the bank accounts of the directors, but it was worrying to know that such machinations were being carried on behind one’s back. Such knowledge had eventually driven Clive to suicide.

  It was difficult to imagine Warren Hastings would ever allow himself to be so bedevilled; the long face was singularly unlined, and his hands rested calmly on Smythe’s desk as he surveyed the young man seated before him.

  ‘A soldier, eh? A hard life. Why should you wish to undertake it?’

  ‘I think it is one for which I am fitted, sir,’ Richard said carefully. ‘More than for that of a clerk.’

  ‘I have heard of your efforts with a pistol and sword,’ Hastings agreed. ‘But there is more to soldiering than weaponry. There is the command of men.’

  ‘That would have to be put to the test, sir.’

  Hastings studied him. ‘You do not lack confidence, at any rate. What of money? Your father?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can expect no assistance from that quarter, sir.’ Hastings frowned. ‘A quarrel?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean simply that my father has nothing to spare.’

  ‘Bryant,’ Hastings said thoughtfully. ‘From Sussex?’

  ‘Kent, sir. The Sussex Bryants are distant cousins. But I was born in
London. My father is a West Indian agent.’

  ‘An employment which usually yields handsome profits,’ Hastings suggested.

  ‘Not for my father, sir.’

  ‘An honest man? There’s a rarity. So you thought you’d come to India and make your fortune and his, eh? You’d have more chance as a factor than as a soldier.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Or are you, too, an honest man, Mr Bryant? Life as an officer, without a private income, can be uncommon hard. Oh, you would be fed and clothed and armed. But officers cannot be paupers. Have you ponies?’

  ‘I have never played polo, sir.’

  ‘But you can sit a horse?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hastings stroked his chin. ‘You have determination,’ he said. ‘Taken with your other assets, that suggests you could have a prosperous future here in the Company. Does it not seem senseless to throw all of that away to get your head blown off?’ He smiled. ‘Even if you survived, and rose to the rank of general, you would hardly do as well, financially, as if you achieved my position. And you could, you know.’

  ‘I doubt that, sir.’

  ‘Because you wish to soldier. Well, Mr Bryant, I am now awaiting instructions from London as to the disposition of our forces here.’

  ‘For the campaign against the Marathas?’ Richard asked eagerly.

  ‘That will soon be concluded,’ Hastings remarked. ‘We have taught them a lesson they will not forget. No, no, our problem is once again the French.’

  ‘Here, sir?’

  Richard was disappointed. A few months before, France had declared war, seeking revenge for her defeats in the Seven Years’ War of twenty years earlier. But it was proving an entirely naval affair. The only fighting on land was in North America, where the British colonists were persisting in their criminal rebellion against the Crown. There were rumours that France might send an army to the Americas, but North America was about as far away from India as it was possible to be.

  ‘It would be a mistake for us to assume that, because the French East India Company failed, Mr Bryant, the Frogs are no longer interested in India. Or that they are incapable of acting against the Company. Are you not aware that nearly all the native armies with which we are surrounded are commanded by French officers? Indeed, such princes as Scindhia and Haidar Ali in Mysore have whole regiments of French soldiers who preferred to remain here rather than return to Europe. They call themselves Free Companies.’

  Richard had heard of the French mercenaries, but had never considered them as anything more than extensions of the ambitions of their Indian masters.

  ‘There are some famous names amongst them,’ Hastings went on. ‘De Boigne, now, he commands Scindhia’s army. He is a fine soldier, and a patriotic one. If a directive were to come from Paris I doubt he would find it difficult to persuade Scindhia to march against us. Then there is Renard.’

  ‘The one they call Sombre,’ Richard said.

  ‘That is the man. A black-hearted Alsatian villain whom I would very much like to hang, after the massacre he perpetrated on our people at Patna. Do you know of that?’

  ‘Not enough, sir.’

  ‘Well, it is a simple tale, really. He descended upon the settlement, forced its surrender, then ordered the massacre of all the male prisoners. It is said even his Indian allies refused to obey that order. But it was done, nevertheless. And the women and children were sold into slavery. English women and children, Mr Bryant. That was seven years ago, and still the scoundrel has not been brought to book. More—he prospers. He has even carved a kingdom for himself south of Delhi, at Sardhana, and has been recognised as viceroy by the Mughal. He’s no patriot. But he hates the British, and if he saw an opportunity to humble us he’d seize it quickly enough. Oh, we have enemies a-plenty on our doorstep, Mr Bryant. Which is why I am seeking permission to increase our military establishment, both here and in Madras and Calcutta. When that permission comes, as it will, I will have your name in mind, Mr Bryant.’

  ‘For which I should be most grateful, sir.

  ‘Providing you have not changed your mind.’

  ‘I’ll not do that, sir.’

  ‘Why, then, look forward to the arrival of the Indiaman. She’s overdue. These ships are always overdue. But she may well bring what I seek. What we both seek. Good day to you, Mr Bryant. Look for the ship.’

  *

  Looking for the ship was one of the great pastimes in Bombay.

  The Indiamen arrived approximately every third month; returning home a few weeks later, after they had been round Ceylon to Madras, thence to Calcutta, and thence to the small British colony of Penang on the coast of the Malay Peninsula. The great vessels, as large as a line-of-battle ship and nearly as heavily armed, brought mail and news, English cheeses, French and Spanish wines, memories of the good things which had been left behind.

  They also brought new faces, new writers seeking their fortunes under the Pagoda Tree, new merchants seeking to acquire the wealth of the Indies, sometimes even new young women, also seeking wealth through marriage to a respectable husband. Few white men who had lived any time in the East could still be called respectable, but as long as they were wealthy, what did it matter?

  The ships were invariably late. The first week or so could be put down to contrary winds, or not enough wind. After a fortnight factors began to become anxious, and parading the seafront armed with telescopes became even more popular an afternoon entertainment than polo or cards.

  ‘This ship will bring my niece,’ confided Jonathan Smythe. ‘Her father, my brother, is dead, and she is to live with Mrs Smythe and myself, as our daughter. Charming girl, charming.’

  Richard and Albert Forsythe exchanged glances. It was difficult to suppose any relative of Jonathan Smythe’s could be charming, as the adjective certainly could not be applied either to the merchant or his wife.

  Still, a young, unmarried woman, who was also already well connected financially...

  ‘You can forget her,’ Albert recommended, as the group broke up. ‘I’ll wager Smythe has her husband already picked. And it won’t be one of us.’

  ‘I was not giving Miss Smythe the slightest consideration,’ Richard assured his friend. ‘Marriage is not for me. Not with my commission all but certain. It is purely for that reason that I seek the ship.’

  ‘Do you suppose Hastings even remembers your name?’

  The interview was several weeks in the past, and the Governor-General had long departed for Calcutta.

  ‘I am sure of it. He had the look of an honest man.’

  Forsythe gave a shout of laughter. ‘And it is well known that he is an even bigger rogue than Clive, when it comes to fleecing the natives.’

  ‘He will remember me,’ Richard insisted. Never had he felt so confident that his dream was at last about to become reality.

  Someone was shouting, and pointing, and people were clustering at the stone parapet, levelling their telescopes.

  ‘A sail!’ they shouted. ‘A sail.’

  ‘Your glass, Albert, I beg of you!’

  His friend handed it over readily enough, and Richard levelled it. Undoubtedly there was a sail out there, and growing larger.

  ‘The Indiaman,’ he breathed.

  And all your dreams come true,’ Albert said with a grin.

  ‘Well, as to that, whatever despatches she carries for the Governor-General will have to await Calcutta, of course. But I truly feel close to success.’

  *

  The watchers on the shore waited until it was too dark to make out more than the ship’s lanterns, then they went home to bed. She was safe now. Next morning, when they again hurried to the shore—little Company business was done the day an Indiaman arrived—they saw her all but to anchor, her topsails already furled, as she glided before the light south-westerly breeze into the harbour, her yellow-varnished topsides, studded with black gunports, glowing in the morning sun, her afterdeck a mass of people, staring at the island which they had elected to make their home.<
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  Richard reminded himself that now she was here his personal anxiety was over, yet he joined with everyone else to watch the bumboats put out from the shore and the passengers begin their transfer to land. Jonathan Smythe and his wife actually went out to the ship on one of them, taking advantage of his privileged position. They were some time in returning—‘They’ll be taking coffee with the master, I’ll be bound,’ Albert said—but when they did they were accompanied by a young woman.

  She was indeed charming, in a froth of pale blue muslin and a pale blue straw hat with dark blue ribbons which floated down to below her tight waist. This much was obvious from a distance. But as the boat approached the dock, it could be made out that she possessed ringlets of auburn hair, a complexion of the most perfect peaches and cream, deep blue eyes, and lips ripe for delicious wickedness.

  Most of the writers had gathered on the dockside, together with several army officers; Richard made out Berkeley Ford, standing with two other red-coated young men. All were staring at the approaching boat with expressions of rapt wonderment.

  Albert Forsythe turned to Richard, his eyes alight. ‘The man was telling the truth. She is an utter charmer. By God, but Bombay has suddenly become the most splendid place on earth.’

  Richard was inclined to agree with him. His earlier pretended indifference to the ship and her passengers quite forgotten, he moved forward with the rest of the young men as the boat came in to the steps. Smythe was already ashore, handing his niece across the gunwale, and protesting to the pressing crowd of spectators.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he protested. ‘My niece has had a long and trying voyage. Why, she hardly understands the feel of dry land beneath her feet.’

  And indeed at that moment the young lady gave a little lurch, and all but fell into the arms of her uncle.

  Mrs Smythe was left to scramble ashore with the aid of an Indian sailor, while the waiting men sighed as they watched the factor put his arm round his niece’s waist.

  ‘You’ll call, as you wish,’ Smythe told them. ‘You’ll call.’