The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  XVII

  The First Spear

  Next day

  ‘Chota hazree, Colonel.’

  Johnson had taken to announcing his customary ‘dish o’ tea’ like the bearer who brought it at Arcot House (though without the ‘sahib’ that ended every one of Sutty’s statements) and who’d kept with them these past months no matter what the heat and dust. (His name was Sutantu – the Lord Shiva – but Johnson thought ‘Sutty’ was more regimental.)

  ‘And Sutty’s made some ’oney cake.’

  It wasn’t yet light, and none too warm, and in truth Hervey would have preferred to lie a little longer, but tea was always enough to fortify him. At least his razor could stay in its place, for he’d shaved before dinner.

  ‘Who roused you?’

  ‘’Ave been awake for ’ours.’

  He didn’t ask why. It wasn’t the time to hear the litany of instincts, misgivings and suspicions that invariably came with the first night in a new billet.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Ragjiv’s making ready?’

  ‘’E is, Colonel. Been up for ages. Gave Minnie ’er corn an hour ago.’

  Hervey counted himself doubly blessed with his bearer – he didn’t like ‘dressing-boy’, as they called them in Madras – and with Ragjiv, his syce. Johnson had trained them well, though he said they hadn’t needed any training, just acquainting with regimental ways – which was tantamount to meaning his, Johnson’s, ways.

  But as he sipped his tea, the perennially unwelcome thought came to him: how much longer would he – could he reasonably – be able to count Corporal Johnson his man? Twenty-five years it had been, as good as. Perhaps it had been that morning on the ridge at Mont St Jean that sealed the bond, when with the rain still beating down the then Private Johnson had brought him a canteen of tea – hot, piping hot, and he, Hervey, a cornet, when not even his captain’s groom had managed more than brandy. Were you too at Waterloo? / ’Tis no matter what you do, if you were at Waterloo …

  But the hour before dawn wasn’t the time for philosophy, or for addressing the future. Sufficient unto the day … There was pig to be hunted – and, no doubt, the reason for the invitation to be revealed. For nothing here could be taken as merely incidental.

  Sutty came a few minutes later with a bowl of hot water, and a new-boiled egg, and then in an hour, as the sun rose, he joined Fairbrother and Serjeant Acton in the courtyard – just the three of them, for he’d thought better of asking Georgiana, wanting no distraction. For then too St Alban would have had to come and play the escort, and there was work for him elsewhere. Nor would he take the baboo, for he reckoned his Hindoostanee ought to be up to chasing pig.

  Minnie looked as fresh as the day they’d left Madras. He’d thought he might instead ride Granite – he’d schooled the gelding for the chase, after all – but Georgiana had taken to him, and he to her. Now, though, he was having second thoughts. Minnie had a big stride and plenty of speed, but Granite was perfection, a clean-bred little horse, quick to turn and light to the rein, and fast over a quarter of a mile, with a bold eye and courage beyond praise … There again, they weren’t competing for the Coromandel Cup. Whatever was the rissaldar’s game this morning, he was sure that Minnie wouldn’t be outrun by native cavalry.

  They were in the saddle when the rissaldar’s party arrived, so the introductions were brief, no handshakes. Acton, in his red, with carbine and sabre, looked them over with his usual suspicion. Three officers (the rissaldar and two jemadars) with three orderlies, none with long guns, but holsters on the saddles and the orderlies with swordbelts – quite a fight if it came to it, two spears against three, and he against the sowars. He reckoned he’d take two with the sabre before they knew what was happening, and the third would then bolt, likely as not. Their pistols probably weren’t capped either, so he’d have the advantage if it came to that too. He’d just have to trust that the colonel and Captain Fairbrother could hold off the three officers with their spears, or else their Derringers, till he could bear down on them in turn …

  The rissaldar explained that they’d be drawing the country to the west. There were nullahs there, and some of them difficult to see till on top of them, but plenty of jhow, the tamarisk, the bushy manna tree – common cover for pig. At this time of year there were numerous sounders, as well as singleton boars, he said. They usually took three or even four in an hour.

  Fairbrother had yet to wield a spear. They hadn’t hunted pig at the Cape. ‘Just recollect that a horse can go where a pig goes, and let him have a long rein,’ said Hervey as they broke into a trot, clear at last of the rings of earthworks, all of which had been thrown up since his first coming here. (What troops there were to man these fortifications no doubt he’d find out.)

  ‘Chintal’s not famed for its country,’ he added as they debouched onto the grassy plain. It was on the whole rather flat, much of it jungled; and there was nothing very much ancient about Chintalpore which, in decay, would give it the consequence and grace of other princely seats. It was nothing to Coorg, with its hills and noble forest, its fast-flowing streams and sudden vistas. But trappy jungle had its fascination, he supposed, not just for sport but for its mystery. Who knew what it concealed, of past or present?

  Fairbrother heard him without remark. It was an unconscionable hour to be abroad, even for sport, and to hear that the country sounded no more appealing than Goree (of late memory) didn’t conduce to conversation.

  There were no beaters that Hervey could see, so he imagined they’d simply be riding-up, springing the game themselves. He’d no objection to that. Perhaps he might learn something of value, if there was any conversation with his hosts, though so far the rissaldar seemed disinclined.

  But they did seem to be making very determinedly for a particular patch of jhow. He supposed they must hunt the ground regularly.

  Sure enough, as they got close to fifty yards a huge boar – a single pig, a ‘sanglier’ – broke cover.

  But not as if they’d bolted him. And as he spurred after it he saw it was let slip from a frank. (They’d long given up the practice in Madras, too many beaters gored in the process of taking a pig captive and then carting it elsewhere.)

  No matter; the boar ran hard.

  Hervey raced straight ahead – the first rule – then on to the line. For not to ride exactly the line that the pig ran would lose ground, and often as not bring a spear to grief – a lesson he’d learned the hard way. There was no seeing the country; the horse did that – a good horse anyway. Let the pig be the pilot, to tell the horse where to put in a fifth leg, and where to shorten its stride. There was never so much trouble riding hard on a boar’s line; the trouble came with trying to ride a parallel one – or a general stern chase.

  Fairbrother was to his left some lengths back, but the rissaldar was coming up hard on the offside – too close for comfort if the boar jinked, and with it Minnie, as she certainly would on a long rein. The fellow risked a foul, indeed, except this wasn’t the Coromandel Cup; there was no umpire – no rules.

  Hervey gave a touch with the shaft of the spear, and Minnie lengthened. The boar ran straight and fast for half a mile, just the one nullah giving it a bit of a scramble, which Minnie took without check, gaining a little more ground. Fairbrother was with him still (Acton too), but the rissaldar and cohort were beginning to crowd him, more intent on riding him off it seemed than getting to the pig first. He’d have cursed them had they been his, but there was nothing for it now but to give Minnie her head and trust to her blood.

  Another fast half-mile, the boar still not tiring but the rissaldar several times close to colliding, forcing Hervey to keep drifting off line and swear like the army in Flanders. Two more nullahs, one so wide it needed three full strides, the boar losing ground again, but still not enough for him to close, and Minnie starting to blow. Then three narrow ones in a row, unseen. She jumped big each time, but one of the jemadars didn’t, and fell hard. Fairbrother stayed clear on his nearside, b
ut Acton had closed on the rissaldar. (If the colonel fell it would be the rissaldar’s fault, in which case …)

  Still the boar ran straight. He’d surely need cover soon to catch his wind? There was jhow to left and right.

  But he wouldn’t yield. On and on, without slowing – not as much as the field at least. Two more nullahs checked them (needing a stride and a half) and nearly tumbled Fairbrother, yet somehow increased the boar’s velocity. Never had Hervey seen pig run like this, even in Bengal. If they’d been at Fort St George he’d have pulled up and touched his peak to him. But it wasn’t Fort St George, and – no doubt of it – the rissaldar was harrying him …

  Yet another nullah, half hidden by tiger grass and camel thorn: Minnie stumbled, recovered and then jumped big.

  But the boar disappeared.

  Hervey pulled up and stood in the stirrups. He’d not let it get away, no matter how long it took. But all around was thick cover …

  He began casting about looking for ‘pug’ (spoor), but the thorn was close set and the horses had roiled the open.

  Nothing – not a clue.

  They’d have to beat him out. But from so much thorn – how? What would—

  ‘Christ!’

  It burst from cover not twenty yards off – massive, fast and straight for him.

  He just got the point down in time to spur Minnie to meet it square. The impact nearly pitched him from the saddle, and he struggled hard to hold it off, though the point had gone deep.

  Minnie, nostrils flaring but answering loyally to the leg, kept her ground until at last the boar, exhausted, gave way, toppling like a sniped stag.

  Hervey jumped down. ‘Carbine, Sar’nt Acton!’

  He’d no intention of just letting it bleed to death; and a Derringer wouldn’t do.

  Acton unshipped the carbine – it was ready primed – and handed it him. ‘A good size, Colonel. And a fighter.’ (He’d leave his observations about the native officers till later.)

  ‘Indeed.’

  A shot, a grunt, and then it was over. Hervey handed back the carbine and touched his cap to the trophy.

  The rissaldar, come from the other side of the jhow, jumped down beside him.

  ‘The colonel is a great shikaree,’ he said in English, and with a smile that was almost warm.

  Hervey simply nodded, and coolly. He’d no desire to be complimented by a junior, especially one who’d nearly unseated him. But the admonitions could wait – and the fathoming of what on earth he’d been about.

  ‘The village chief will come with his men to take the boar,’ said the rissaldar, pointing to the smoke rising in the distance. ‘Please come away now, Colonel, for there is someone who wishes to meet with you.’

  Fairbrother heard, and gave Hervey a quizzical look, as if uneasy.

  ‘Who, Rissaldar?’

  ‘I am bound not to say, Colonel-sahib. Please come.’

  Hervey managed to suppress his irritation, just. ‘We’d better accept, I think,’ he said to Fairbrother, mindful that he didn’t know just how much English the rissaldar understood.

  ‘Very well.’

  The rissaldar looked relieved. ‘Mehrbanee, Colonel-sahib.’

  It was the second time he’d added ‘sahib’ to ‘colonel’ – a definite sign of subordination, of submission even. Hervey couldn’t fathom his game.

  Tired though they were, the rissaldar put his horse into a canter and turned north towards the forest a quarter of a mile away. Only now did Hervey appreciate they’d come so close, for he was sure the boar had run in the straightest of lines – though perhaps it was the forest which bent south?

  Then he saw: spectators, mounted, two dozen and more, by the forest edge.

  A little further and he realized who it must be.

  The rissaldar slowed to a trot as one of the party – an officer in the uniform of the bodyguard – advanced to meet them.

  Fifty yards short, they halted.

  ‘Colonel Hervey, I am Rissaldar-major Natu,’ said the officer, in the clearest English. ‘I am sirdar of the household. The Ranee wishes you to be presented.’

  Hervey angered. He’d been sported with. For what purpose? He kept it close, however. It wouldn’t do to show.

  He nodded, and followed keeping Minnie collected, weary though she was.

  He looked the Ranee straight in the eye as they neared. She sat composed, astride, splendid in blue silks, and flanked by sowars and an assortment of courtiers – men, all; not another of her sex in sight.

  Had she played him as a cat’s paw, if at a distance?

  But he’d not given her cause for triumph, at least; if that had been her intention. Neither pig nor nullah – nor rissaldar either – had unseated him. If she, the would-be ‘Tigress of Mysore’, had intended humbling the Company’s representative – the British Crown’s, indeed – she’d not succeeded.

  In fact, she’d surely set back her cause by challenging the supremacy of the Company in front of the court – albeit in sport (though wasn’t sport the image of war?). Indeed, was it not perilous to have done so before not just her courtiers but her bodyguard – her praetorians, who like all praetorians might unseat her?

  He was defiantly triumphant.

  Minnie was blown, however, her neck and flanks drenched, her breathing heavy. His every instinct was to dismount, run-up the stirrups, loosen the girth and lead her in hand. But he couldn’t present himself on foot to any man or woman who remained in the saddle. Minnie would have to bear it a little longer. She’d have every attention as soon as may be.

  He pressed forward, but the Ranee herself suddenly dismounted – and as elegantly as it was unexpected.

  He cursed beneath his breath. She’d outplayed him, forcing him now to dismount, Acton taking the reins before himself springing from the saddle, along with Fairbrother.

  ‘Your Highness, may I present Colonel Hervey,’ said the sirdar.

  It had been eighteen years. How long she’d spent in the forest of the Gonds – in just what circumstances, comfort and liberty – he’d no notion; but the years had been kind. Excessively kind, perhaps. She was the same slender figure of their first encounter; her face, lighter than the Madrasi women whose complexion he’d so much admired in those days (and did yet), was unlined; her hair, jet black, was just as he remembered, and her eyes larger still. Though unadorned by any jewel save a gold pendant on her forehead, she remained, by any estimate, a beauty of high degree.

  ‘Her Highness Princess Suneyla Rao Sundur.’

  If the sirdar knew of their tryst in the forest all those years ago, when the sampera – the snake-catcher – had hissed to bid them be silent as they crept to the nest of the hamadryad, and Suneyla had taken his hand and squeezed it in a gesture of reassurance, and he’d not loosed it, so that then, moving a little ahead, she was leading rather than walking with him in that place of primal instincts … If the sirdar knew, he concealed it perfectly.

  No, the sirdar could have no idea. He himself had thought almost nothing of it until now. Now, when ceremony made memory suddenly vivid by contrast.

  What was this game she was playing? Why had she prepared this … contest, this spectacle, like the munera of Ancient Rome?

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said simply, saluting.

  She had once called him Matthew – for a moment or two, in the forest – and now all was formality.

  But she smiled as she held out her hand – a confident, regal smile (meant no doubt for those who watched). Even so, it disarmed him in part, for a smile – however devious – was hard not to reflect. And to be other than gracious was anyway to risk the resentment of her followers, and therefore his purpose in Chintal. He took her hand and bowed.

  ‘Colonel Hervey, it is good to see you again. Or is it “General”?’

  The enquiry might be innocent enough, but it might also suggest remarkable intelligence (of his coming command of the field force). ‘Colonel, Your Highness.’

  ‘I observed the chase ke
enly, Colonel. I hope you enjoyed it. It was close run.’

  He wasn’t sure if she meant with the boar or the rissaldar, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. ‘A noble beast, Highness.’

  ‘Your horse is fatigued, let me find you another.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, but she’ll recover soon enough. She has bottom, as we say.’

  The Ranee smiled again. ‘I had thought your daughter might accompany you this morning.’

  ‘I hope I may have the honour of presenting her later, Your Highness. Meanwhile, may I present my good friend Captain Fairbrother of His Majesty’s Cape Mounted Rifles.’

  He beckoned his good friend forward, and they went through the formalities again. Suneyla was all politeness.

  She asked how long they intended staying. ‘I understand there will be matters requiring attention with the sad death of Mr Weller.’

  ‘There will, Your Highness, but not, I think, detaining us much more than a week,’ said Hervey.

  ‘Then I look forward to the pleasure of your company in that time, and of your daughter, and of course Captain Fairbrother. You will dine with us this evening, I trust.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, and while you are in Chintal, I hope you will take opportunity to visit with Colonel Bell – you recall? He came to assist my late father. He is old now, and rather – as you say’ (she smiled as she turned the phrase) ‘infirm, but I believe he would wish a visit by a fellow-countryman.’

  Hervey had met Colonel Bell but once. Evidently he’d taken residence, though this was the first he’d heard of it. Yet what interest could Suneyla have in such a man, who was plainly no longer of use to her – not, at least, the use for which he’d first come to Chintalpore, command of troops?

  Curious, too, that she singled him out for mention now, rather than later.

  He would speak with Fairbrother.

  XVIII

  The Tamasha