The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  The rissaldar beckoned one of his Sikhs, truest of his true, to escort the Ranee’s lady to the citadel gate. He knew not precisely of what they’d spoken, but he saw that his Ranee was fearful – bravely though she tried to hide it (doubly bravely, for she was but a woman) – and for the moment it mattered not. As soon as she gave him leave he would order the entire rissalah – sixty sowars – to put saffron on their faces and a yellow cloak over their armour, just as a Rajpoot prince, riding out to fight, would vow that if he could not win he would die, and his bondsmen likewise would put on yellow, the clothes of the dead, vowing not to return from battle unless victorious – sworn to die. And this – this above all – would surely give heart to his Ranee?

  Mira Bai slipped out of the gate of the citadel to respectful compliments from the guards – the dewan’s guards keeping the pretence of ceremony rather than confinement. (Inside, men of the rissalah stood more serious sentry, a field piece loaded with grape ready to sweep the approaches.) She walked slowly but unhesitant, her eyes lowered modestly, her left hand at the skirt of her saree to lift it an inch or two clear of the earth, her right clutched to her breast. Her Rajpoot instinct was to walk with head held high, but women were few within the palace walls now – even the hijdas were fewer – and she would not tempt hindrance or insult.

  As she reached the middle of the maidan a subedar of the dewan’s auxiliaries, ill-dressed and rough in manner, barred her way.

  ‘Your deceit is discovered, Mira Bai. Come with me. Begin your prayers.’

  Ashok Acharya watched from the shadows of the great bastion. He himself recoiled from the actual exercise of force. The very sight of blood, even, troubled him. He’d contrived the business at the snake pit because there was no other way, but that was with the Ranee; there must be no doubt as to what he implied. But brute threats as now – he hadn’t the stomach for it, and certainly no pleasure. Let the subedar do his work. He’d watched him with others. The subedar most certainly took pleasure in it. And with a woman doubly so, a highborn Rajpoot especially.

  Mira Bai said her prayers. She prayed for the protection of Kali, and for mercy if she was not spared, but first for strength.

  The subedar and his men took her to the far end of the bastion, to the snake pit she’d heard of but never seen. There was no light but for the torches – terror enough – but then the pit and waiting death in the spreading hood of the cobra.

  ‘Om Sri Maha Kalikayai Namah,’ she began – I bow my head to the Divine Mother Kali …

  ‘You will tell what passes between the Ranee and the outside,’ said the subedar, grasping her by her arms and pushing her to the edge of the pit.

  ‘Om Sri Maha Kalikayai Namah …’

  He shook her as if to let go. ‘You will tell what passes between the Ranee and the outside, or you will not see her again or the sky, or your husband or your children.’

  ‘Om Sri Maha Kalikayai Namah …’

  ‘By the curse of Lord Shiva, you tell what it is that passes!’

  But Mira Bai would not tell.

  The subedar swore, and spat words to one of his men, who hurried away as if possessed.

  He pulled Mira Bai from the edge of the pit. No one before had ever defied him, he cried.

  And Mira Bai looked not defiant but terrified.

  He half dragged her from the bastion, out into the sunlight of the maidan which she’d thought she’d never again see. She began to sob.

  He pushed her to her knees and yelled to the man he’d sent running, who now drove his heel into the small of her back.

  She gasped and fell on her hands.

  Out of the shadows came a brute figure, not a soldier by any description. A bhuttote, a strangler.

  The roomal swung round her neck in one movement. She had no time to gasp again. In half a minute she lay still.

  The onlookers – there were many – kept silent. It took repeated words of command to turn them away to their duties. Kill one, frighten a thousand.

  The hijdas were silent too.

  * * *

  A general who declines to attack the enemy in a defensive position, advancing instead by another line in pursuit of his object, will (if he is able to pass-by with impunity) immediately force the enemy to abandon the position. For the enemy always has a dread of his retreat being cut off.

  This indeed was Hervey’s intention, mindful too of what the Prussian said was the most powerful device in the art of war: surprise. And that consisted in ‘opposing the enemy with a great many more troops than he expected at some particular point so that the actual superiority in numbers becomes suddenly of little – or certainly lesser – importance’. (Really, it was nothing that a common captain didn’t know – one at least with five years in the field against the French – but ne’er so well expressed.) Colonel Dennie had therefore agreed that winning a couple of hours more by marching at once might save blood; and Colonel Maclean had agreed to dividing his dragoons – vexing though it was – to make a demonstration against the rear of both positions, the river and the stockade, and likewise to march before sunset. Major Garratt had needed little persuading to have his two squadrons re-saddle at once and clear and mark the route for them. So that only the reserve, the Nizam’s contingent, would march after last light – a good two hours after – for there was nothing more trying for cavalry, even when horses were led, than to be slowed by infantry ahead of them; just as there was nothing more trying for infantry than to march over ground roiled by more horseshoes than was unavoidable.

  The moon set just after three and Hervey’s orders had been for commanding officers to judge the condition of their men at that point and to rest until dawn unless they thought there was advantage in pressing on in what would then be Stygian darkness.

  At three o’clock, therefore, in the last guttering moonlight, the Somersets had lain down in column of route and slept. Dennie, at their head, had looked though his telescope with satisfaction at the distant watch fires of Chintalpore – a mile and a half, perhaps two. Thirteen miles they’d covered, in eight hours. It was hardly the pace Sir John Moore (of blessèd memory) had set at Hythe when he trained the first regiments of light infantry, but then he, Dennie, had at least kept his battalion in one piece and good order; and when the sun came up again they’d march off briskly in column of companies – and, as he told his captains, ‘We shall shock them!’

  The Thirteenth, with Colonel Maclean at their head, marching dismounted for all but the last hours of daylight, had made rapid progress too, reaching their objectives, the two debouches (to their surprise, not picketed), with the moon still up to light their bivouac. Maclean had sent word to Hervey by galloper – ‘The corks are in the bottle.’

  The Sixth, meanwhile, their marker work done with the passing of the Somersets, had also been able to rally by moonlight, under the direction of Armstrong’s blue-glass lantern, off-saddling for three hours’ rest till stand-to at first light. Theirs then would be to screen the Somersets as they alternately quick- and double-marched to Chintalpore. (‘Same as herding cattle’, the dragoons joked; or even sheep, said some, but slower.)

  Hervey joined them just before moonset.

  ‘Tea, Colonel.’

  Johnson’s hand to his shoulder again. It was enough somehow to wake him always from the deepest sleep, and the tea likewise to fortify his most doubtful spirits.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, sitting up and letting the cloak fall from his shoulders.

  ‘I meant “General”, Colonel.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  Once it had been just ‘sir’ – Mister Hervey. They’d travelled a good many miles since then, and yet it was always the same (or so it seemed): a bed of turf, and soon the saddle, and then …

  ‘Stay with the bat horses today, Corp’l Johnson. No need to muster.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘There’s no purpose.’

  Johnson was puzzled. There was never ‘purpose’; yet still he mustered. If Hervey – Co
rnet, Captain, Colonel – mustered, then so did he. He’d lead his second charger, or be additional coverman, or just be ready to take the reins if he dismounted. They had a bearer and a syce with them; why on earth did the bat horses need him suddenly?

  ‘But …’

  Then he thought better of it. There’d be opportunity enough to get him to change his mind. He’d always been able to about this and that, little things. (If there were going to be a fight, he’d be damned if he were going to miss it.)

  Hervey rose, shook his cloak and said he’d shave – the business of a quarter-hour only (he wasn’t dressing for a ball); and in that time Johnson could have Minnie fed, and then saddled as soon as the Somersets were ready to march. The razor was worth four hours’ sleep. Besides, a general ought to look as if he were in possession of time, rather than pressed by it. It would, though, be another meagre breakfast for them, though at least with the visible prospect of fresh rations. The store-houses of Chintalpore would soon be theirs; and when the Thirteenth gave the Chintalees their shock, the commissary waggons would bring plenty of salt beef.

  In these latitudes the sun rose without hesitating, and but for the shadow at the forest edge, the stage was now at last revealed. There, to the north and west, a league or so, was the city, with the fortress-palace prominent on the hill. Both looked at peace. The forest was its usual morning dissonance, all manner of birds, monkeys and heaven-knew-what-else waking to the new day and calling out in joy, or else in fear and warning. There’d been few shots during the night – none that Hervey had heard, certainly – and there were none now either. The brigadiers before the two Chintalee positions – Lindesay and Craigie – knew the plan: confuse and unnerve the defenders with silence at first light, and then as soon as the dragoons made their show, press the attack.

  The Somersets, having stood-to-arms while it was still dark, now made short work of breakfast and breaking camp, and began mustering in column of company. Hervey knew he was asking much of them. Biscuit was no real good to fight on, or even just to march (Charles Stuart’s men had learned that hard before Culloden, while the admirable Cumberland had fed his men on beef), and he thanked God he’d a man like Colonel Dennie in command. Dennie had led them every inch of the way; and Hervey was certain he’d drive them if necessary when the time came.

  ‘Stand-to!’

  It came suddenly, repeated left and right.

  He was about to mount, but instead pulled out his telescope.

  Horsemen; in the shadow of the forest; half a mile north.

  ‘I do believe it’s Worsley.’

  Major Parry had his telescope too. ‘Dragoons, certainly, General. They’re in no hurry; no one in pursuit, evidently.’

  Hervey put away his telescope. ‘I’ll let Dennie stand-down in his own time nevertheless.’

  It was a full five minutes before Colonel Dennie was satisfied his battalion would not have to form square.

  Two minutes later Worsley and half a dozen dragoons trotted briskly up to Hervey’s pennant.

  There were the customary exchanges, though perhaps with more relief than usual.

  And then the report. ‘As you instructed, I sent out patrols at first light. I’ve come at once, however, because we were able to scout during the night and I myself made touch again with Fairbrother. The communicating tunnel’s flooded, by which he supposes that Ashok Acharya didn’t know of it, as they’d never have flooded it otherwise.’

  Hervey looked doubtful. ‘It’s a poor communicating tunnel that’s flooded unintentionally.’

  Worsley raised his eyebrows as if to say it was as much as he knew. ‘But Fairbrother believes it’s salvable.’

  ‘How the deuce does he suppose that?’

  ‘He wasn’t awfully forthcoming, but Colonel Bell knows a great deal about it, it seems, and Fairbrother’s hijdas come and go as they please.’

  ‘No matter. But how’s it salvable? I’ve but a few sappers.’

  Worsley now looked sceptical. ‘He’s gone to the coal pits to bring a steam engine. He’s found a place to pump the water unobserved.’

  Hervey sighed. ‘It can do no harm, I suppose.’

  Frankly, though, he was beginning to wonder if Fairbrother’s new-found fascination with steam was altogether sane.

  ‘And the city itself?’

  Worsley said he thought it possible the people had little idea that anything untoward was happening. Even the flooding of the moat hadn’t seemed to excite much notice, and there were few if any in uniform on the streets. ‘I got about with no difficulty whatsoever.’

  Hervey nodded. It boded well for a long siege at least, a docile population at one’s back.

  ‘And what of the “Pindarees”?’

  Worsley shook his head. ‘Other than that their grand barracks are empty, nothing yet. I’ve tried to send word that riches beyond belief are theirs if they remain loyal, but have had no word by reply. I’m rather pinning my hopes on the patrols.’

  Hervey nodded again. It wasn’t easy, he knew. ‘It’s not unknown for a freebooter to take his troops some distance from the fight and wait to hear how it’s going … All the more reason to make a demonstration before the palace as soon as may be.’

  ‘The patrols have orders to send word as soon as they make touch.’

  Hervey stiffened suddenly. Shots – a great many; muffled, indistinct, but the sound of battle, unquestionably.

  Then he smiled with satisfaction. ‘The Thirteenth beginning their work.’

  ‘I saw their pickets.’

  ‘The greatest folly the Chintalees didn’t picket. Careless practice. No sign of communication with the palace. And I warrant the palace’ll believe the noise to be frontal attacks.’ He wouldn’t tempt fate by saying so, or encourage any to drop his guard, but he was thankful nevertheless that he was evidently opposed by no great general.

  ‘Quite,’ said Worsley. ‘An easy enough job, too.’

  The sound was now of considerable cannonry, and growing.

  ‘Well, Lindesay and Craigie know their business, and Maclean.’

  Johnson brought coffee. Hervey took his knowing that in doing so he turned a blind eye to the disobedience. (Johnson always managed to interpret to advantage all but a direct order.)

  A few minutes later, Parry pointed them to rear. ‘The Nizams approach, General.’

  Hervey turned. They were an imposing sight at the best of times: so many horsemen. His design for battle was now complete: he had his reserve at hand, and the way was clear. A risk, though, using them.

  ‘They come most carefully upon their hour, too. I believe we’re now as well set as may be.’

  Parry beckoned the orderlies to take the word to Dennie and Maclean.

  They cut about like lurchers on a hare.

  In ten minutes the Somersets struck off to the bugle in column of company: Advance! – repeated semi-quavers, Gs and Cs.

  The Sixth, with two guns of the flying troop – flank guards and screening – began their advance with a sabre signal.

  Worsley finished his second cup of coffee. ‘Orders, General?’

  ‘Where and when will your squadron rally if they don’t make touch with the Pindarees?’

  ‘On the Somersets when they reach the palace.’

  ‘Very well; till then, ride with me.’

  Hervey wished he’d a decent artist with him: dragoons, flying guns, red-coated infantry, Nizam’s horse – a field day, even, was nothing to the eye to compare with this; and all making their steady way across the green plain towards the castle on the hill, warmed but not oppressed by the steadily rising sun, with no noise but that of distant battle in the forest, the creaking of leather, jingling of bits and snorting of horses. This was the best of the soldier’s art, before it became the work of the butcher. The eggs weren’t yet in the pudding, but there was much to savour: A general who declines to attack the enemy in a defensive position, advancing instead by another line in pursuit of his object, will (if he can pass-by with
impunity) immediately force the enemy to abandon the position.

  Fortunes could turn in a moment, though. A plan rarely unfolded as desired. Yet a general must impart confidence to his command: ‘I charm thy life / From the weapons of strife, / From stone and from wood, / From fire and from flood, / From the serpent’s tooth, / And the beast of blood.’

  ‘General?’

  ‘Mr Southey, gentlemen: The Curse of Kehama. It’s been my companion these past months.’

  ‘An Indian story?’ asked Parry.

  ‘Indeed so, though whether it’s a true representation of the Hindoo’s religion I can’t say, but it compels.’

  ‘Our “beast of blood”, I take it, is the dewan?’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Probably, yes. The other elements are plain enough.’

  ‘Or else the “Tigress”?’

  He certainly trusted not. He’d thrown in all with the Ranee. It wouldn’t be the first time an Englishman had been tricked by a prince here in India, but for him it would be the end. ‘An unhappy prospect.’

  Worsley sensed his unease. ‘I am with Blake and his tiger,’ he said, intending to deflect the thought.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I have these past days been in the forests of the night.’

  They laughed. ‘That indeed is droll.’

  Then the scouts were active suddenly.

  Horsemen …

  Hervey halted and took out his telescope. ‘Yours, I believe, Christopher.’

  Worsley had his own ’scope to his eye. ‘Cornet Kynaston, indeed.’

  He came at a hand-gallop, two dragoons close on his heels.

  A minute more, and … ‘General!’

  Hervey returned the salute. ‘Report, Mr Kynaston.’ (He supposed he’d be doing so too in due course to his uncle.)

  ‘Mr Grace’s compliments, General. Pindarees, one thousand perhaps, are proceeding south towards the palace and to its east. There are two thousand more encamped a league west of the palace, but at the time of observing, shortly after dawn, they showed no sign of leaving. Mr Grace maintains his observation of these, as does Mr Price the thousand.’