The Tigress of Mysore
Page 1
Allan Mallinson
* * *
THE TIGRESS OF MYSORE
CONTENTS
PART ONE: THE PRESIDENCY OF FORT ST GEORGE I Thugs
II Words of Command
III ‘Progress’
IV The Ways of Nature
V The Penalty of Death
VI La Longue Carabine
VII Major Sleeman
VIII Salvete et Vale
IX Council of War
X The Distaff Side
PART TWO: THE NORTHERN CIRCARS XI Ghufoor Khan
XII And All His Pretty Ones
XIII The Deceiver
XIV Prudential Judgement
XV Diplomacy
PART THREE: CHINTAL XVI A Nine-Gun State
XVII The First Spear
XVIII The Tamasha
XIX The Fatal Gift of Beauty
XX The Chintal Field Force
XXI Imperious Duty
XXII A Few Honest Men
XXIII The General’s Art
XXIV Fire and Manoeuvre
XXV The Race to the Quick
XXVI The Walls of Jericho
XXVII The Fruits of Victory
Historical Afternote
Matthew Hervey – Curriculum Vitae
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A professional soldier for thirty-five years, Allan Mallinson began writing while still serving. His first book was a history of four regiments of British light dragoons, one of which he commanded. His debut novel was the bestselling A Close Run Thing, the first in an acclaimed series chronicling the life of a fictitious cavalry officer before and after Waterloo (The Tigress of Mysore is the fourteenth in the series). His The Making of the British Army was shortlisted for a number of prizes, while 1914: Fight the Good Fight won the British Army’s ‘Book of the Year’ Award. Its sequel, Too Important for the Generals, is a provocative look at leadership during the Great War, while Fight to the Finish is a comprehensive history of the First World War, month by month.
Allan Mallinson reviews for the Spectator and the TLS, and writes for The Times. He lives on Salisbury Plain.
Follow him on Twitter @allan_mallinson
Also by Allan Mallinson
LIGHT DRAGOONS: THE MAKING OF A REGIMENT
THE MAKING OF THE BRITISH ARMY
1914: FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT
TOO IMPORTANT FOR THE GENERALS
FIGHT TO THE FINISH
The Matthew Hervey titles
A CLOSE RUN THING
THE NIZAM’S DAUGHTERS
A REGIMENTAL AFFAIR
A CALL TO ARMS
THE SABRE’S EDGE
RUMOURS OF WAR
AN ACT OF COURAGE
COMPANY OF SPEARS
MAN OF WAR
WARRIOR
ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE
WORDS OF COMMAND
THE PASSAGE TO INDIA
For more information on Allan Mallinson and his books, visit www.penguin.co.uk
Note on Orthography
At this time in India there was no standard spelling of words transcribed from Hindustani and Urdu. It was not until 1837 that the Honourable East India Company, which had recently been charged by Parliament with government and administration rather than exclusively with trade, replaced Persian with the local vernacular as the official language of government offices and of the lower courts.
Hindustani was the native language of northern India, historically the region known as Hindustan. The Mughals brought the Persian language with them to India, and Hindustani began to acquire Persian words. In parallel, the pure Persian of the Mughal court began to acquire words of Hindustani, becoming zabān-i Urdū-yi mu‘allá – the ‘Language of the Exalted Camp’ – referring to the ruling classes and Mughal army.
Hindustani and Urdu were, and are, practically the same spoken language. However, the former was written in Devanagari script (as in modern Hindi), and Urdu was written in the Persian Nastaliq script (as in modern-day Pakistan and by the Urdu-speaking Moslems of India).
Transliteration in Hervey’s time was, understandably, haphazard. Letters and diaries sometimes spell the same word differently on the same page. The vowels are the usual cause of variation. ‘Hindustani’, the modern preference, was variously spelled Hindoostani, Hindoostanee, Hindustanee, Hindostani, Hindostanee. Rendering the Indian vernacular in what might be called ‘Times of India’ style would have the merit of consistency, but would lose a certain sense of period. As in earlier books, I have therefore adopted the practice of the double-letter vowel, but not exclusively, for to do so would make some words look just too quaint.
Oh Allah the all-powerful! dispose the whole body of infidels! Scatter their tribe, cause their feet to stagger! Overthrow their councils, change their state, destroy their very root! Cause death to be near them, cut off from them the means of sustenance! Shorten their days! Be their bodies the constant object of their cares, deprive their eyes of sight, make black their faces in shame, destroy in them organs of speech! Slay them as was slain Shedaud who presumed to make a paradise for himself and was slain by command of Allah; drown them as Pharaoh was drowned, and visit them with the severity of the wrath. Oh Avenger! Oh Universal Father! I am downcast and overpowered, grant me Thy assistance.
INSCRIPTION AT THE PALACE OF TIPOO SULTAN,
‘THE TIGER OF MYSORE’, SERINGAPATAM, 1799
GOVERNMENT OF INDIA ACT, 1833
An Act for effecting an Arrangement with the East India Company, and for the better Government of His Majesty’s Indian Territories, till the thirtieth day of April one thousand eight hundred and fifty-four …
SECTION 38:
PRESIDENCY OF FORT WILLIAM IN BENGAL TO BE DIVIDED INTO TWO PRESIDENCIES
The territories now subject to the government of the presidency of Fort William in Bengal shall be divided into two distinct presidencies, one of such presidencies in which shall be included Fort William aforesaid, to be styled the Presidency of Fort William in Bengal, and the other of such presidencies to be styled the Presidency of Agra; The court of directors to declare the limits from time to time of the several presidencies …
SECTION 39:
GOVERNMENT OF INDIA VESTED IN GOVERNOR GENERAL AND COUNSELLORS
The superintendence, direction, and control of the whole civil and military government of all the said territories and revenues in India shall be and is hereby vested in a governor general and counsellors, to be styled “The Governor General of India in Council” …
Part One
* * *
THE PRESIDENCY OF FORT ST GEORGE
I
Thugs
Kothapore, Northern Circars, February 1834
Bunda Ali, late of Haidarabad and now of Madras, counted himself the most fortunate of men – al-hamdu li-llāh. For he was a moonshee, a teacher of languages. Yet no mere teacher to the writers of ‘John Company’, honoured though that position be, but moonshee to His Britannic Majesty’s Sixth Regiment of Light Dragoons – ‘most senior, most honoured of all regiments in entire presidency of the Fort Saint George’, which he proclaimed proudly to each and all on first acquaintance. Angreze – Englishmen – of exalted rank paid him respects, he would tell them. There were, he said, many high-born officers in the regiment at Madras – sons of noblemen, sons of His Majesty’s highest ministers of the Court, sons of great zamindars (landowners) and men of affairs. He esteemed especially their sirdar, Colonel Matthew Hervey-sahib, who attended to the Hindoostanee (so near to the Urdu) with exemplary purpose (even though it was not the native language of Madras), and who showed much aptitude for many other tongues, including that of the inferior Tamul people; also his wife, a very great lady, who had received also his own wife and spoken with h
er as if someone high-born also as she (though to tell truth the father of his wife was bunnia, a merchant of corn, and money-lender).
All this pleased Bunda Ali greatly, especially as with his position came a salary of eight hundred Arcot rupees a year (his servants received from him three rupees a month, and were most content).
And now, while the regiment was away in the west of the country on a mission of which he was not made privy (for he had no need of knowing), he was availing himself of the opportunity to travel to the place of his birth, with his wife and new-born daughter, to celebrate the wedding of his eldest to the man he had found for her some years before.
It was not the worst time of year to be making a journey. There was the better part of a month yet before the onset of the hot weather that would oblige them to travel by night. His little party had been on the road for three weeks – a well-made road at first, one of the dak roads that the Honourable East India Company made and maintained so that hircarrahs with their postbags, as well as troops and guns, might pass quickly between Fort St George and the garrison towns of the presidency. But once in the Northern Circars, they had left the dak road for the unmade track that headed north-west to Chintalpore, seat of the Rajah of Chintal, and then onwards to Haidarabad, for although the northerly route by Rajahmundree had the merit of being in Company territory, that by Chintalpore would save them many days.
In fact, to be precise, Chintalpore was the seat of the Ranee of Chintal: the rajah had died several years before, and, there being no male heir, the title had passed – though not without violent dispute – to his daughter.
Chintal in the time of the old rajah had been a proud and peaceable place, if troubled periodically by the Nizam of neighbouring Haidarabad. Hervey had himself observed one of these incursions – had taken up the sword, indeed, on the rajah’s behalf – during his first sojourn in India fifteen years before. Since then, with the succession of Nasir-ud-dawlah, Haidarabad had not troubled its smaller neighbour very much, having quite enough troubles of its own, yet not sufficient to tempt the Nizam to the distraction of a foreign war. Chintal had no permanent Resident of the Company, however, merely an agent, Fort William’s interests being overseen from Nagpore, and since the death of the rajah there were many in the princely state who had come to wish there were, for where there was a Resident there was an interest, and where there was an interest there was the Company’s Peace – now, in practice, the King’s Peace, since the recent act of Parliament made the Company an instrument of colonial government rather than of trade.
Kothapore, but a league or so from the fork in the dak road that took the traveller from the Company’s Peace to that of the Ranee, was a place of no great size, just an old fort with its outlying bustees (and mean dwellings they were at that, for in the hot season the land here was barren waste), but it served nevertheless as a naka, a customs post. Bunda Ali had no goods on which duty must be paid, but even so, he knew he must part with a good many rupees. The maidan was common ground; travellers could pitch their tents, fold their cattle, draw water from the wells and bathe in the stream, but the pahra, the watch, would want their dues. Not dues by right, but because they bore arms and stood between the traveller and his journey. And they might make trouble otherwise – tell him there was no fresh bread to be had or grain for his horses, or else search his belongings interminably, or tell him the maidan was needed for an official party. It was the way of the country – baksheesh.
And the pahra could expect Bunda Ali to be generous: he was a fine-looking Mussulman, bearded, turbaned – a kazee perhaps, a law officer. He rode a fine-looking Marwari, and behind him, on ponies of quality led by clean-shaven syces, came a girl of fourteen and a woman with a child in her arms. Behind them were five more servants and a bullock cart laden with the appurtenances of a man of position. Few men travelled with a retinue so large, yet without escort. (And among his baggage was concealed a thousand rupees’ worth and more of jewels and coin – five years of savings – for his daughter’s wedding and dowry).
The sun had almost set, and Bunda Ali wished only to make camp in a safe and pleasant spot. He was content to part with ten rupees for favour of a grove of banyan close by the stream, where his servants swiftly pitched the tents and began preparing the evening meal, and the grooms took the horses to water and to wash off the dust of the road. People from the bustees came to sell them bread, fruit and sweetmeats. Bunda Ali was content indeed – for this one night at least. Thereafter, his caution must be the greater. While he travelled the dak road he felt secure enough, for there was many another traveller and frequent bodies of troops, although near the forest edge he was always on his guard, for as well as wild beasts there were dacoits – robbers, armed and rapacious – who, though he felt sure he and his syces could see them off (they carried swords, and he a pistol too), would distress his wife and daughter. Beyond the Company’s pale, however, he would have no such guarantee. The surest precaution would be to join another, larger party making for Haidarabad. Dacoits would fear to attack such large numbers of men, and it would be pleasant also to have travelling companions with whom he could relieve the tedium of this long journey. Agreeable also for his wife if there were female company. He was pleased therefore when soon after dark two men carrying lanterns came to his camp – one a policeman, he said, Ghufoor Khan, a Mussulman like himself, travelling to Haidarabad on official business; the other, Essuree, an officer of the magistrate’s court at Etawah in Hindoostan, returning with depositions from Vellore in a case of criminal conversation. (They wore their badge of office with the habitual pride of the native official.)
‘Huzoor,’ they began; ‘we have learned that you are travelling many days and must do so more. These roads are not as in the lands of Company-bahadur. Chintal people are not for trusting. We shall be honoured for you to join our party, which is more than fifty, all good and honest simple men. It will be our greatest pleasure to have travel with us an educated person.’
Bunda Ali was much relieved – al-hamdu li-llāh – and accepted at once. His servants brought sweetened coffee, and his two guests stayed an hour and more, hearing of the moonshee’s good fortune in his appointment at Fort St George and in finding so suitable a bridegroom for his daughter.
Next morning, the two parties broke camp early and left Kothapore together. They intended making Sawangee, some twenty miles thence, before nightfall, where the old rajah had a hunting lodge – which perhaps the new Ranee kept also. It was near twice the distance that Bunda Ali would have travelled as a rule, but, said Ghufoor Khan, the road was good, not too rutted by bullock carts, and they would easily reach the little town by evening, with its pleasant camping ground and good wells. He would send on some of the men to keep the better part of it, and to have the naan-baa’ii (bakers of bread) make ready for them.
And the road proved as Ghufoor Khan said. It ran level and even, directly north-west, little deviating from its line except to skirt a hill, of which there were few. But it was a desolate country, the soil black and stony, unfit for the plough or even broadcast, and so villages were as few as the hills. The jungle through which they’d passed the day before had given way to forest edge, and there were but two rivers, both of them narrow and shallow enough to ford without hazard. Throughout, Bunda Ali rode between his ‘hosts’, finding them excellent company, just as they’d promised the evening before. Behind him his wife and daughter rode peacefully, speaking only to each other; and his new-born – another girl (a beautiful girl, but needful of another dowry in her turn) – scarcely cried at all. And now, as he beheld Sawangee ahead, with the sun still an hour above the horizon, he gave thanks yet again: ‘Allhm rb alsmawat … O Allah, You are the Lord of the seven heavens and all the things that are under these heavens and whatever is over these and of Satan who misled and all those misled by him and for the wind and all that it blows. Thus we seek the good of this town and the good of its people and seek refuge from its evil and the evil of its people, and from the ev
ils of whatever is in it.’
Ghufoor Khan’s lughaees – those who went ahead to prepare the ground – had done their work too, keeping another pleasing grove (of bamboo this time) not too distant from a stream. A dozen bechne-walee, sellers of all manner of good things, were gathered in expectation, and were not disappointed. Bunda Ali’s servants pitched the tents as deftly as the evening before, watered and washed the horses, cut them grass, gave them a little corn, and then attached them to a running line before getting down to the business of pots and kettles. Soon afterwards, a small detachment of the Company’s soldiers came in from the south, Native Infantry and two English officers, advance party for a magazine train (Chintal found it expedient to buy powder and fuze from the Company). They made camp but a hundred yards away, with just a clump of bamboo and the running line between them and the larger travelling party. Bunda Ali gave thanks once again, for surely Allah himself had sent these men for his protection, and thought he might present himself to the Angreze, and tell them he was moonshee to Colonel Matthew Hervey-sahib and His Majesty’s Sixth Light Dragoons, who were also Princess Augusta’s own (although of this latter he might not speak, for he himself did not quite understand how a regiment of the English king might also be that of a princess – and a foreign princess also). He might, indeed, offer them the hospitality of his own shivir.
But in the end, Bunda Ali would not present himself. Something stayed him, the uncomfortable thought that perhaps these Angreze might not be welcoming, for they might not be like Colonel Matthew Hervey-sahib and the officers of the dragoons. He had sometimes found that officers of the Honourable East India Company, having learned their languages for many years at their seminary in England, did not wish to treat with him in the same way. Oh, they were very good and fine gentlemen, but they were of very serious mind, and this perhaps made them a little unbending. That, at least, had been his experience at Madras.