The day was four hours old, the sun well up but with only moderate heat – a perfect morning for a parade. Sleeman was determined, too, that the despatch of the thugs would be business-like, and had brought three of the most experienced hangmen from Saugor District, wanting no ropes breaking and the hangman having to strangle the prisoners on the ground, as at Nagpore (nor any hamstringing afterwards to prevent the dead man’s spirit returning to haunt the executioner). He also wanted the drop long enough so as not to have to place heavy fetters on their legs, which had also excited the sympathy of the crowd at Nagpore, Indian and European alike. No, these men from Saugor knew their business. And he certainly didn’t want these thugs going defiantly to the gallows: they’d not be allowed to declare they were self-offerings to Kali. He intended making a solemn impression on those still fettered by error’s chain: the spectacle was not simply the ultimate penalty of the law but moral example.
At ten o’clock precisely – or as precisely as the gun at the fort made it – the condemned men were brought out in two tumbrils pulled by oxen, hands bound behind their backs so that they could make no salute to the onlookers, and gags to prevent all but muffled protest. Men of the Fifty-fifth guarded them, with orders to use the butt of the musket if any became agitated, while others marched in close escort, with mounted dragoons of the Thirteenth to front and rear.
When after a quarter of an hour the procession reached the scaffold, Sleeman and his waiting hangmen ascended the ladders. The Sixth, in hollow square, were standing easy, resting on their sabres. Suddenly they were braced by Armstrong’s ‘Parade!’, three hundred blades coming back to the shoulder.
The crowd fell silent.
Sleeman began reading the proclamation, first detailing the condemned men’s crimes – the last of which was the murder of Bunda Ali and his family – and the sentence of death passed by court martial. Carefully rehearsed repeaters with speaking trumpets translated for the crowd. Then came the exhortation:
‘We must oppose to the progress of thuggee and dacoitee a greater dread of immediate punishment, and where our present establishments are not sufficient or suitable for the purpose, we shall employ others that are, till the evil be removed; for it is the imperious duty of the supreme government of this country to put an end in some way or other to this dreadful system of murder, by which thousands of human beings are now annually sacrificed upon every great road throughout India.’
The words were meant as much for the newspapers of Calcutta and Madras, and even London, as for the crowd and the troops on parade. They were not without effect, however.
‘What a perfectly noble man is Major Sleeman,’ said Georgiana, sitting astride, twenty yards or so behind the Sixth.
‘He is,’ said Annie, though knowing she’d have to close her eyes when the moment came.
At first, Hervey had forbidden Georgiana to come, but she said she couldn’t be expected to know India if she weren’t allowed to see its darkest side, by which she meant both the iniquity to which ‘the heathen in his blindness’ could sink, and the disagreeable obligations of those whose mission was the country’s deliverance. But he’d conceded only on condition that she turn away from the moment itself. He’d seen enough men sent to their Maker thus to know what lasting impression it made. (And, indeed, Georgiana had been surprised that he’d thought she mightn’t.)
‘’Ang ev’ry fookin’ bastard one of ’em!’ came a voice from the ranks.
Annie lowered her eyes. It was occasionally the language of the stable yard and kitchens of the Berkeley Arms, but not that of Georgiana’s world. The dragoons always minded their language very well in her hearing, but they weren’t to know that the commanding officer’s daughter was posted within earshot.
Armstrong came unexpectedly to her support. ‘Par-a-ade …’
The voice silenced even the crowd again. And not the boldest, most impudent dragoon would risk a whisper now that the serjeant-major had ‘spoken’.
‘Atte-e-en-shun!’
The noble Major Sleeman may have talked of imperious duty, but for the Sixth it was more than imperious; it was regimental. Armstrong marched from the centre to the left flank of the open side of the hollow square, halted in front of the waiting major, saluted and pronounced the parade present and correct.
Major Garratt returned the salute and marched to the centre. ‘Fall in, the officers!’
The captains and subalterns drew swords, marched along the open side, and halted.
‘Officers, take post!’
They struck off left, right and centre to halt five paces to the front of their troop, turned inwards and remained at attention.
Hervey now rode onto parade.
‘General salute, pres-e-e-ent, arms!’
The dragoons stood stock-still while the officers lowered swords. Hervey returned the salute with a hand to the peak of his shako, and then Garratt returned them to the ‘shoulder’.
‘Light Dragoons, stand a-a-at – ease! Stand easy.’ It was the privilege of the commanding officer alone to use the cautionary ‘Light Dragoons’, but no one on parade thought that Hervey had wholly relinquished command.
It was cruel to delay – the men about to be hanged could now see the actual instruments of their execution – but delay was cruel necessity.
‘Light Dragoons, those about to die have been tried by lawful authority for the murder of many innocent men, women and children. They did so without remorse and most savagely, and for nothing but material gain – in some cases from people with little enough. They will shortly pay the price for that, and in so doing they will not be able to murder any more. They have been brought to justice by your actions these past months. You may be proud of what you have done for the good people of this country. But there is more. These men most cruelly murdered Moonshee Bunda Ali, and all of his family, including a child new born. The moonshee served the regiment loyally. His face was not white, and he did not wear the uniform of a dragoon, but he was one of us.’
Hervey paused and looked about the ranks, and would have forgiven a voice in agreement had any come; but a parade was a parade, especially with Armstrong posted. The only sound came from the distant repeaters, rendering his words – he trusted – into Hindoostanee.
‘No one who murders one of the regiment can expect to escape apprehending – ever – and nor can he expect mercy.’
He paused again.
‘For that is our bond.’
And with that he turned about and rode from the square.
Yet he cursed that it wasn’t the whole truth. Until Ghufoor Khan was brought to the scaffold, justice was incomplete.
Major Garratt stood the parade easy and ordered ‘eyes left and right’ to witness punishment. Georgiana and Annie reined about, but did so at a walk, for otherwise it would have seemed unbecoming.
They were not out of earshot when the crowd gasped as one, and the thugs were – soon – no longer of that world.
An hour later, Hervey took up his pen to write to Kezia, as he had whenever there was opportunity and anything worthwhile – or seemly – to say. He’d written already of their time at Chintalpore, and there was not a great deal else to tell save some diverting – he hoped – story of the camp, or of Georgiana and Annie. And a little about the food, of course, and the weather, and the birds, and anything else he could think of that might reassure her. He ended, though, by saying that their first mission here, the suppression of thuggee, was complete, and not without success – but sparing any details of the measure of that success – and that their second charge would likely begin in two or three weeks’ time, assuring her that it would be no very great thing once the force was assembled. And in the meantime – he always tried to make his campaigning sound more sport than war – he hoped to shoot snipe with Georgiana in the marshes of the Krishna.
He sealed it with the agate sealstone she’d given him before leaving England. It wasn’t always easy to imprint the fine-limbed stallion cleanly in the wax, but this
time the impression was as good as might be, and he handed the letter to Corporal Johnson with evident satisfaction.
‘There is a hircarrah today is there not?’
‘I’ll go find out.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Have you heard anything more of Mr Waterman’s death?’
‘No, Colonel, or else I’d ’ave told yer.’
It amused him that Johnson preferred ‘Colonel’. It was, though, apt, for the general rank was local and they weren’t on parade, and he’d be colonel again soon enough when the business of Chintal was done. Indeed, he was quite sure he’d be colonel indefinitely, whatever Kat had written.
‘Frankly, it troubles me that I make such a matter of the moonshee and yet – if there has indeed been foul play – I’m not able to say as much about Mr Waterman.’
Johnson understood perfectly. ‘Well, Colonel, you’d never’ve been able to say that about t’moonshee unless somebody’d ratted out them thugs.’
‘That is true. And it vexes me that I’ve no one in Madras who can rat things out, as you put it. Or here, for that matter.’
‘Well, nob’dy ’ere can ’ave done it, as they’d all left before ’e died.’
‘They could have, indirectly. They could have paid someone – a thug like those we’ve just hanged.’
‘Do thugs ’ave snakes, though, Colonel? I thought they just strangled people.’
Hervey conceded that Sleeman had not once mentioned it as even an infrequent practice.
‘So why go to t’all that bother,’ Johnson continued. ‘Why not just strangle Mr Waterman, or smother ’im? Nob’dy’d be able to tell.’
Hervey said he didn’t know if that were true – that a doctor of, say, Milne’s erudition would surely detect the signs.
‘Well, it were only accident that Mr St Alban caught them thugs and one of ’em ratted. All as can be ’oped for, I reckon, is that there’ll be another accident, in Madras. Till then, there’s nowt as can be done.’
Hervey conceded, and asked for more coffee.
There was a knock at the door, and Parry came with paper.
‘General, this has come from Chintalpore, from Captain Fairbrother by corporal-galloper. He says the city’s in confusion.’
Hervey took it, checked the seal – Fairbrother’s stamp, unbroken – opened it and began to read.
His face soon disclosed the contents.
When he was finished, he handed it to Parry. ‘Confusion’s not the worst of it.’
Chintalpore
January 29th
My dear Hervey,
In the early hours, this day, without warning, the bodyguard, all except the rissalah, which does duty in the palace, was surrounded in their barracks by a force I estimate at 2,000 foot, & were disarmed. The artillery barracks were invested at first light & fighting occurred between, I understand, on the one hand the Swiss officers & some loyal natives, & on the other the rebel force. The rebels took possession of the barracks & all its ordnance in the late morning. The roads in & out of the city are closed by bodies of cavalry. As far as I can discover, the Ranee is fugitive – but unharmed – in the palace, which is now invested by a great force of infantry, & guns being brought thither from the artillery barracks. At the time of writing, the rissalah stands loyal under command of Rissaldar Sikarwar. For the moment I am not confined to my quarters & am able to communicate with him by irregular means. I am endeavouring to meet with Ashok Acharya. Colonel Bell is unmolested. He is of the opinion that this insurrection will succeed & with the gravest consequences unless immediate action is taken to relieve the palace. I have given no undertakings, but I have sent word to the Ranee that any appeal to the Company for assistance would be met with favourably and promptly.
Parry handed back the despatch. ‘Will it be met with favourably and promptly, General?’
Hervey smiled grimly, for he was without prospect of timely orders from civil authority. He had often said, though – indeed it had been his working principle – that it was easier to obtain forgiveness than permission. It pleased him greatly that he might claim the decision was justifiably his, though it disturbed him more than usual that there’d be no forgiveness for choosing ill.
‘Depend upon it, Parry.’
‘But when will Sir Eyre be returned?’
‘I can’t know. And it’s for that very reason that I say you may depend on it that the Company will act favourably and promptly. I myself shall take the decision.’
Whatever the mind of Fort William, he would at least have the consolation of knowing that his old friend would not be held responsible.
‘Shall I call for the brigadiers?’
‘A moment if you please. Where is the galloper?’
‘He waits outside, General.’
‘I would see him.’
Johnson brought him.
His coat bore the dust of the road still.
Hervey nodded to the salute. ‘Corporal Ledley.’
‘Colonel.’
‘Do you know what are the contents of the despatch?’
‘I do, Colonel. Captain Fairbrother told me to commit them to memory in case of mishap.’
‘You had no difficulty getting out of the city?’
‘No, Colonel. The captain ’as some trusties. They know their way about and we was able to go by other ways. They get in and out of the palace too.’
‘Capital. Bodyguard men?’
‘No, Colonel. The he-shes. They seems to come and go any way they pleases.’
‘The old game: Joshua had prostitutes, Fairbrother …’
‘Colonel?’
‘No matter.’ He turned to the brigade major. ‘Parry, sound for brigadiers and commanding officers.’
As the conference dispersed, Hervey spoke with Colonel Lindesay, who by seniority would in the event that he fell, take command. Lindesay had distinguished himself in Coorg, and was also, Hervey was certain, the right man to see through a siege if – God forbid – it came to that, but he impressed on him that his design was no more than deployment: what they found – when and wherever they found it – would determine what next. Bonaparte’s plans were like a splendid leather harness, the Duke of Wellington always said: perfect when it worked, but if it broke it couldn’t be mended; whereas he, the Duke, made his harness of ropes – never as good looking, but if it broke he could tie a knot and carry on.
‘You’ll be adept at tying knots, I fancy?’
Lindesay was older by at least ten years. He’d been a major two years before Hervey was a cornet, and had seen much service. A lesser man might resent the supersession.
‘General, just give me a little rope.’
Hervey laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.
He spoke also to Colonel Maclean of the Thirteenth, and to Worsley, for both their commands were independent, and impressed on them the paramount need for gaining as complete a picture as possible and as quickly as possible – in the first twenty-four hours – for it would be their éclairage that determined what to do next.
Then he asked Worsley to stay a moment, and spoke with him in an unusually confiding tone.
‘Make touch with Fairbrother quick as you can, Christopher. He’ll be in peril already, and greatly more once the insurgents learn we’re coming. Most of all, he’ll best know of what’s happening. Ride clear of any fight unless it’s unavoidable. You’ve seen the country. Take your risks early. And …’ (he was conscious he spoke to a man who’d yet to see his son and heir) ‘there’s no reason we shouldn’t bring this off without excessive blood.’
‘That will certainly be my endeavour,’ replied Worsley, with a wry smile. ‘We’ll be off by dawn.’
‘Then I’ll see you next in Chintalpore,’ said Hervey, offering his hand. ‘Go to it.’
Worsley drained his glass – Hervey had requisitioned a case of burgundy from Somervile’s cellar, for a ‘stirrup cup’ after a council of war always got things off to a good start – then saluted and took his leave with an a
ssuring ‘Depend upon it, General.’
Orders given, questions answered (so far as answerable) and the words of private encouragement delivered, there was then for Hervey the strange ‘hiatus’ that came between a council of war and commencement of an enterprise. Brigadiers and others had their instructions and in turn must give theirs, while he who’d first given them their orders now had little or nothing to detain him, almost as if the clock stood still. He could sit apart in thought, or take refreshment, or rest – or else visit.
He ought perhaps to show his face – or, at least, the mask of command – to those least familiar with it, but instead chose those who knew it best. In truth, there was reassurance to be had from those with the shared experience of many years, and he was not above the need of it. (Besides, he’d only face another onslaught from Georgiana if he went back to his quarters at once, and he was determined in that matter: Chintal in its present state was no place for her or Annie. She’d be safe enough here with the rear party of Somervile’s Bodyguard – and a sight more comfortable.)
There was no reason, either, why he shouldn’t go to the Sixth’s horse lines. The regiment remained his command no matter what the present arrangements (though he wouldn’t want to make Garratt’s job any harder by appearing to cling to it). Nor, with Worsley’s troop detached and the other four disposed to screen the advance of the brigades – a squadron to each – was there much that Garratt could practicably do till they reached Chintalpore. After the conference Hervey had wished him well – suppressing as best he could all thoughts of the unresolved affair of venality – and shaken his hand.
Armstrong he found with the quartermaster in the storehouse counting out ball cartridge – his oldest ‘Sixer’ comrades (along with Johnson). Both of them braced up like dragoons on first parade as he came in, for Collins, though four years commissioned now, would not give up the discipline of half a lifetime, and the RSM knew no other.
The Tigress of Mysore Page 25
