The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  He saw Worsley off with a word or two about Chintal, how it was quite impossible to say how these things would go, but that he hoped he might bring it off without a shot. ‘I was there fifteen years ago. Queer place. If it comes to a fight, though, I’ll certainly need your troop.’

  They shook hands. It was unusual, but it passed for many more words. They’d spoken of matters that men as a rule didn’t speak of; a handshake said it was all done – hukum hai, ‘the matter is closed’, the way the silladar regiments ended things at durbar.

  Hervey returned to his Mail.

  Ten minutes later, Serjeant Stray reappeared.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Colonel … Dr Milne.’

  He ushered in the surgeon – and much less stiffly. Milne was a regular visitor, and always gave his report after seeing Kezia if Hervey was at home.

  ‘Good evening, Colonel.’

  Hervey poured him whiskey. ‘Nothing amiss, I trust?’

  ‘No, not in the least. I’ve just paid a call on Dorothea Worsley, and before that, Serjeant Twentyman’s wife – she carries her fourth, and well.’

  ‘Kezia’s not yet returned from Government House.’

  ‘No, I’d not thought to see her today. No need. I thought not to trouble you at office, though.’

  Hervey looked at him quizzically. ‘Proceed.’

  ‘I thought to say that if you wished it, I could arrange for the surgeon of the Fifty-seventh to do duty, and I his.’

  Hervey nodded appreciatively. It was delicately done. He knew Milne’s mind exactly. Milne, his senior in age by some ten years, was already much respected in the Sixth. Few regiments could boast a physician as their surgeon, and fewer still, if any, Medicinae Doctor Aberdonensis. But, he knew – else Milne would never have suggested it – the Fifty-seventh’s man must be every bit as capable, and perhaps even more so with the knife, for Milne always protested that he disliked cutting, let alone cutting deep (although he’d saved Collins’s life in the Belgian skirmish by amputating). Nor did Milne lack stomach for the fight, as the late business in Coorg had shown.

  Hervey knew both what he wanted to say and what he must, but took a moment or two nevertheless to wrestle with himself.

  ‘My dear doctor, I am ever in your debt, but on this occasion there can be no question of where duty lies.’

  Milne nodded, with a look of resignation. It was as he’d expected, if not as he’d hoped – not perhaps as he’d hoped, for while as a man he would have admired his commanding officer’s devotion to his wife, as a man under authority he might surely have thought the decision unfitting.

  ‘Very well, Colonel. I shall look forward to the change of air.’

  Hervey always found Milne’s gentle Buchan reassuring. ‘You’ll not have dined. Will you sup with us? Kezia can’t be very long returning.’

  ‘That is most generous, as ever, Colonel, but there are two men sick in the hospital that I would see before staff parade. Nothing serious in the acute sense, but …’

  Hervey smiled, though to himself. Milne: if there was a single dragoon bedded down he wouldn’t pass the evening without attending.

  ‘Of course, but nothing to trouble the chaplain with.’

  Milne raised an eyebrow. ‘No, there’ll be no call for burials, but if only the chaplain had been able to close the door ere the horse bolted, so to speak … but I’m afraid it’s now a case – two cases – for mercurous chloride.’

  ‘Ah.’ Many a dragoon consulted a ‘sleeping dictionary’ too, but in their case the vocabulary was all too limited.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the sar’nt-major. The particular house will be made known.’

  ‘And these two: the prognosis?’

  ‘They’ll be back at duty in a day or two. They could do duty now, indeed, but they’ll be bilious with the mercury. Then it will recur at some distant time, as it always does.’

  Hervey sighed. Milne had addressed every troop on the subject of what he called ‘public hygiene’, admonishing them that if they couldn’t control their carnal desires, like wild beasts, they should at least satisfy them ‘in armour’. When it came to the pleasures of the bazaar, however, in the management of men – some, at least – a surgeon (or a chaplain) might as well speak to the hand.

  ‘How many is that now?’

  ‘Forty-seven, Colonel.’

  Hervey sighed again. The better part of a troop; it was unconscionable. His only consolation, perverse as it seemed, was that it was worse in the foot regiments.

  Then he inclined his head in irony. ‘Strange, is it not, that many a dragoon will now live longer for chasing thugs and making war in Chintal, for I doubt there’ll be opportunity for such comforts in many a month.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, lass, that’s about it an’ all. Six months, the colonel reckons, mebbe more.’ Armstrong said it matter-of-fact, but to reassure; it was best to square up to these things.

  The punkah swung silently, and Mrs Armstrong poured him more tea and spread dripping on another slice of bread – his staple no matter what the heat. Six months at least – and only a week ago they’d been talking of next summer in the hills. Mrs Armstrong was not a one to fling her arms around her man’s neck, but five children and two dozen dragoons’ wives and their children were going to be a handful.

  There’d once been eight children – three by her late husband, Serjeant Ellis, and Armstrong’s by Caithlin, his late wife, but the Reaper had not been kind. The older ones minded the younger, as was the custom, though now at least a little army of servants was also at hand. Edie Armstrong was no Caithlin, who’d had book learning and had run the regimental school, but there was no better seamstress in Madras, and she could manage both men and women. She’d never known material comforts such as those now, and was all too aware they might vanish in an instant.

  And she cared fiercely for her husband, too; for, she reckoned, he cared not enough about himself. ‘I’ll want you back, Geordie Armstrong. Don’t you be going for the hero.’

  Armstrong laughed. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing for me now, bonnie lass. Serjeant-major? I’m nowt but a clerk.’

  She frowned. She knew he was no such. She’d heard how he’d charged at Coorg with the colonel – which they’d no right doing, except there was no choice, so they said – and how he’d sabred two. And it’d be the same again this time no doubt, and although there was no one handier in a fight than he (Serjeant Ellis used to say so, and every NCO), the time would come when a lucky shot or an unguarded cut would …

  But there was no point trying to talk him out of being at Colonel Hervey’s side. She might as well try to teach their old pug new tricks.

  But she might just get him to think beyond, a little. ‘I don’t want to say it, Geordie, for you’re every inch a man and more, but even I can’t sew as nimbly as once I could.’

  Now Armstrong frowned. It was true; he’d been mightily long in the saddle, already a corporal when Hervey had joined. He’d own to forty-five years on this earth – but no more. And no one could prove otherwise. His attestation papers had long been lost – an old dodge – though the paymaster kept careful note of his reckonable service. (He’d be able to take his pension at any time.) These days, however, no one bothered about a few grey hairs, any more than they did about a man trying to enlist before he shaved. As long as he looked the part and was useful.

  ‘I’ll be right. Depend on it.’

  ‘They say Colonel Hervey won’t be long before he’s going. They say he’ll be a general and away before a year’s out.’

  That was different, and he knew it. They hadn’t spoken of it before, though. Not that he hadn’t wondered what his own position might then be. Who knew who’d then take command? Even if it were someone from the regiment it wouldn’t mean they’d want him as serjeant-major for long. And what then? Collins was set for life in the quartermaster’s chair, and besides, it wasn’t a job for him. Yes, he could do it, he reckoned – he supposed he could, with a decent quartermas
ter-serjeant – but he knew he’d not be a patch on Collins. RM? He wouldn’t mind, not if it were that or nothing; but ‘babby-minding’, as he called it, wasn’t his idea of soldiery. Besides, Kewley wasn’t going to give up any time soon. What could he do? Now that the Sixth had gentlemen for adjutant, whereas before they’d been commissioned from the ranks, there was no prospect of anything. No, he supposed he’d a couple more years at most, and then it would be the end. He’d tried it once, and been heartily glad when Hervey had brought him back to the colours – and made him serjeant-major, which he’d never for one moment thought he’d be.

  Anyway – Lord in heaven – who could he hand over to?

  ‘When it comes to it, Geordie, do we have to go home though? Can’t we stay here? You know how far a rupee goes. We can have a place ten times bigger than in England. We could even buy our own. They say there’s a new law, and you can buy here now. We could run a guest house – for officers and the like.’

  It was more than he’d have liked to contemplate at this time, what with a regiment to get to Guntoor all of three hundred miles away, but he must say something by way of reply. In truth, though, it wasn’t Edie Armstrong’s intention to have a decision from him there and then – merely to plant the thought in his mind, for him to contemplate during quiet moments in the coming months, of which there must surely be some?

  ‘Aye, well, it’s an idea, bonnie lass.’

  And that was all he needed to say, and all she needed to hear.

  * * *

  Not long after Milne left, Georgiana and Annie returned from their afternoon promenade with Allegra. Annie and her younger charge, with the ayah and her assistants, went straight to the nursery; Georgiana joined her father while her bath was being drawn.

  ‘Papa, Serjeant Acton says the regiment is to go north for several months. May I go too?’

  She took him by surprise. It wasn’t unusual for memsahibs – or a regiment’s women – to accompany their men on expeditions, and there’d certainly be some of the dragoons’ wives on this one, but …

  ‘Why would you wish to?’ (Even as he said it he realized how absurd a question it was.) ‘I mean … would it not be better that you stayed here, in the circumstances?’

  The ‘circumstances’ were Kezia’s confinement (when, in the strict sense, her confinement began). But again, even as he spoke he realized how much he took – continued to take – for granted. He’d presumed on his sister for many years after Georgiana’s semi-orphaning, and now he presumed on Georgiana herself.

  ‘If you wish me to stay here, and my step-mama too, I shall, of course, Papa.’

  ‘Your step-mama wouldn’t, I think, object to your going, for she wouldn’t wish to stand in the way of your being with me after hazarding the passage here, but she might have a concern, I think, for … your company; for I believe Annie would have to stay.’

  ‘If Annie must stay, I should be perfectly content if Anjali or Sarah were to come.’

  Hervey put down his glass. He’d never thought to prepare himself for this – the child he’d always left behind, seen only occasionally and supposed would somehow remain a child, now making her own way, and most assuredly. What, indeed, could he say? ‘Very well, we’ll ask your step-mama’s opinion on her return. And in truth … I shall be pleased if she approves.’

  They dined quietly that evening, just Kezia, Georgiana, Annie and himself. St Alban was dining with the Bodyguard, the major was garrison field officer of the week and therefore dined at the Fort, and Fairbrother was with the Somerviles. The conversation was diverting enough, thanks in large part to Georgiana, who’d learned of yet another of St Alban’s seemingly incomparable qualities and wished to share her enthusiasm, but it had hardly been taxing. Annie had seemed pensive, however. Not that, as a rule, she spoke without first being spoken to, though with assurance enough when she did (and sense). Hervey wondered if they asked too much of her of late – the oversight of three children (well, Georgiana, and Allegra who was not yet eight, and Master Hervey who did not yet speak), although there were Anjali and Sarah, admirable ayahs, and innumerable maids of all work. Perhaps she pined a little for home?

  There was a triumph with the pudding, though. For a year and more Kezia had been considering the attempt, but getting chestnuts brought from the hills beyond Patna had defeated her several times, and only now was there ice enough to be had to continue with the experiment. The cook had been bewildered at first, and only Kezia’s persistence – herself in an apron, no doubt shaming the poor man – had brought off the success.

  ‘I have wanted to do this since first I saw it, but …’

  And the sentence had been left unfinished, for there was no need to recollect the difficulties there’d been since that time – the time of her seizure – and their coming to India. It was a pudding, she explained, that Monsieur Carême, Count Nesselrode’s chef, had devised. And now that she was confident that it could be brought to table, it would be brought as often as the season would allow (and, Hervey trusted, the accounts). For no matter how imperfect the soup, how mean the relevé or unpalatable the entrée, such a pudding would not be forgot, and the homeward diners therefore content.

  When they were alone, outside, Kezia poured coffee for them both, nodding to the khitmagar to dismiss. It was so much cooler of an evening now, almost time for a shawl. Torches ringed the lawn, and lanterns hung from the tamarinds fringing the further parts of the garden. Citronella burners kept away all but the most determined mosquitoes, and the lanterns distracted the rest of the flying tribes. Georgiana and Annie had withdrawn as soon as they’d all risen from the table. It was, as she liked to say, their time of day.

  ‘Is all well with Annie?’

  Kezia frowned. ‘I had thought to ask you the same. Nothing untoward has occurred here, I’m sure. I wondered if the tiger hunt had troubled her.’

  ‘I think I may ask Georgiana.’

  ‘I think that would be wise. Brandy-water?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You are not ill, are you, Matthew?’

  He smiled. ‘I confess I’m a little tired. I think brandy would not conduce to sleeping – or rather, to waking with a good head. Did Milne have anything to say this morning? He told me he’d paid a call.’

  ‘He thought it best if I took to a carriage for exercise, rather than the saddle.’

  ‘And you will?’

  ‘Yes, though I so very much enjoy riding with Allegra – and with Georgiana; and Annie.’

  He was pleased she enjoyed her exercise so, but relieved that she’d moderate it. He was about to say ‘The time will pass quickly enough’ – the time until her birthing – but suddenly thought better of it, for how could he know how time passed for a woman with child?

  Instead he pondered a moment or two. ‘By the bye, the strangest thing: Somervile told me that the commissary had got word that money has been changing hands – bribes – over the forage contracts. I said I thought it so preposterous as to consider it a slander, and that the commissary should produce his evidence, sworn as necessary.’

  ‘That is indeed very ill. I am sorry for you. But surely no discredit attaches to you personally?’

  He shook his head. ‘It can amount to nothing, or else I’m no judge of horseflesh at all. Garratt, Collins and the quartermaster-serjeant are the only men engaged in the business of forage contracts. It’s unconscionable.’

  ‘I should think so myself, even though I know them but little.’

  He nodded, and pondered a few moments more. ‘Somervile was, though, eager to tell me that my dragoon is reprieved. So God bless the major and the tigers of Madras.’

  ‘That is indeed happy news.’

  He related the details – Australia, appeal, delay; she listened patiently.

  Then it was silence again but for the cicadas. Kezia turned to gaze at the distant lanterns …

  ‘You will return to me, won’t you, Matthew?’

  She said it not anxiously but insist
ently, yet with a note of affection that made him catch his breath.

  ‘But of course! I said to Worsley that it’s hardly the French we face – and we beat them.’

  But she knew her husband. She’d known his reputation long before they’d married. Her late husband, then his commanding officer, used to say there was no handier officer in a fight; and she’d heard how he’d charged at Coorg, with Armstrong alongside (naturally), which they’d no right doing, except that (it was said) there was no choice; and how he’d sabred one and then been first through the sally port of a stockade. And doubtless it would be the same again this time. She’d never been happier, she supposed, than now – no, not even as Lady Lankester – and she was all too conscious of the miserable journey to that happiness. Yes, it was all in the past, but how could she know if contentment – the foundation of contentment – might vanish in an instant? A random shot, an unseen blade …

  But there was no dissuading him from the cannon’s mouth. As well bid the incoming tide recede. Could she bear the blow, however, not least for Allegra and now Georgiana – even for Master Hervey, all unknowing still? The material comforts, here, were of no concern; at home in Hertfordshire she’d be as well attended. But she cared for her husband – not least, she believed, because he cared not enough about himself. How else was it that a man who’d saved the government’s skin by his action at Bristol remained a colonel still?

  ‘Let me ask you plainly, dearest: is Lord Bentinck quite to be trusted? I don’t know the particulars, of course, but it seems very convenient for the Company that Chintal be deemed to be in lapse. From what you’ve told me of the place, it wasn’t in the least worth Fort William’s regrets. But now there are rubies – and coal indeed! It is really most convenient. Even if Bentinck does act entirely honourably in this, he’s to leave India next year – you know that – and his successor will be a Whig, and decidedly against these encroachments. Shall you not be … tarnished?’