The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  But did she live?

  ‘Come,’ he said simply to Fairbrother.

  At the entrance to the citadel he found Worsley’s second in command with Major Parry.

  Both saluted, and keenly. ‘The Ranee’s safe, General,’ said Parry.

  Hervey nodded, not exactly with a smile but with evident satisfaction. He turned to Worsley’s lieutenant. ‘The details, if you please, Mr Edgeworth.’

  ‘The insurgents tried but gained no foothold, General. The bodyguard, by all accounts – that is, by the evidence of what lies therein – fought stubbornly. The Ranee is secured in her state room. The troop, meanwhile, is searching the rest of the citadel.’

  ‘And Rissaldar Sikarwar?’

  ‘He is with the bodyguard.’

  ‘Very well. Parry, have the dragoons here form a guard to pay compliments – when they’ve secured the walls and bailey properly – and call the brigadiers. I intend bringing the Ranee out. She ought to see the … detritus of this affair, and the men who’ve delivered her. And they her.’

  ‘General.’

  ‘Come, then, Edgeworth. And you, Fairbrother, for the honour’s at least half yours.’

  Hervey returned the pistol to his belt. Acton had already reloaded his carbine.

  The bodyguard’s stubbornness was in evidence as they made their way to the state room. The stench alone spoke of the fighting. But at the doors of the Ranee’s refuge stood a sowar in good order, who brought his sword to the carry as they approached, and then to his lips.

  Hervey returned the salute with particular care. Men who had stood their ground against the odds were always to be honoured.

  The sowar opened the doors and announced ‘the English general’.

  Hervey and his party entered in step and halted.

  ‘Your Highness.’ He took off his cap and bowed.

  Suneyla curtsied, the first time she’d done so. ‘General Hervey.’

  Her ladies did likewise.

  ‘Is everything well with you, ma’am?’

  ‘It is.’ She spoke quietly, perfectly composed.

  Hervey glanced at the pistols on the table before her, and the jewelled sword.

  ‘There was no occasion for them, General. My rissalah were steadfast.’

  He bowed to acknowledge.

  ‘General, I would see your men, but first may we speak in private?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  Their attendants quit the room, though Acton, trusting no one, not even a princess, needed a confirmatory nod.

  When they were gone, Suneyla said nothing for a moment, seeming to study him. Hervey himself, now standing at ease, was content to wait. Before him was indeed an arresting figure, one made yet more fascinating by what had just passed.

  ‘So you are come then, General Hervey.’

  It was a strange question, if question it was. ‘As you see, ma’am.’

  ‘I knew you would.’

  ‘I’m gratified by Your Highness’s confidence. I’m sorry, though, that it was not by means of the tunnel, which would have spared you the trial of the past few hours. You will know, I imagine, that it was not possible … and also that Mira Bai … has died.’

  Suneyla lowered her eyes momentarily. ‘I do know. And I shall make it my business that her children are not in want.’

  Hervey supposed her reply was reasonable. He could scarcely expect a princess to show grief at the death of one who served her. Not before a virtual stranger.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘I shall of course reward you also in fullest measure.’

  ‘I am flattered, ma’am, but I should only be able to accept on behalf of my command.’

  ‘I understand that that is the practice, but I intend some other token of gratitude. Though what will be left to me when there is a treaty with Fort William I cannot say.’

  He’d no idea what her purpose was. She must know that his influence in the matter would amount to nothing.

  She held out her hand, and he took it to kiss in the usual way. She spoke instead, though, holding his hand the while, and his eyes too. ‘I believe I can count on our special trust always. We were once friends.’

  That evening, when at last he’d shown himself and the Ranee to the troops, found her quarters in the old zenana, secured the palace, set in hand the urgent business of burial and cremation, disposed the field force in comfort and safety, and written a despatch for Somervile at Sthambadree, Hervey sat in an old cane chair at the window of the haveli over which his pennant flew, to contemplate the events of the past days. He supposed that Fort William would soon want to fete him as a great political, and his command, his regiments, salute him as a successful general – as some had tried to do that afternoon. For a while at least. But it was too soon to rejoice. There were too many men that the chaplains would have to read their words over – poor Garratt, for one, gone that very morning (and, God forbid, perhaps even St Alban). Too many of his dragoons and a good many others of the field force. The Duke had been right: Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.

  Fairbrother came later, and there was none he was more glad to see, for his friend needed no orders, nor his concern. A curious equality.

  ‘Well, I never read, and certainly never saw, battle like it. What an extraordinary place is this India.’

  He sat heavily and half-drained the glass of Malmsey. (The Ranee’s cellars had yielded up uncommon quality.)

  ‘Not a business for soldiers proper,’ replied Hervey, still half absorbed in thought; ‘but I suppose that only soldiers can do it.’

  ‘And so what now?’

  ‘We wait. That’s what, now. I exceeded my authority in coming here. As a rule I’ve found it easier to gain forgiveness than permission, but I’m not inclined to try the principle too much.’

  ‘Shall it be the ribbon or the rope, I wonder.’

  ‘You may jest.’

  ‘Only because Fort William couldn’t be so blind as not to see the gain at such very little expense.’

  ‘Then you don’t know India.’

  Fairbrother frowned. ‘I am sorry to find you in such poor spirits.’

  Hervey took another sip of his wine. They would need another bottle soon.

  ‘Tell me: the dewan …’

  ‘That doesn’t trouble you, does it?’

  ‘The Ranee asked. I said he was killed trying to flee.’

  ‘He was. Would she have had him exiled instead?’

  ‘No. She was excessively pleased to learn of it. I believe she had a fear he would haunt the place somehow, a martyr’s death to his followers.’

  ‘Well, he’d few followers when he died. One of your serjeants found him with just a bodyman, and he jumped to escape. He fell heavily but he was scrambling for the gate. I didn’t know rightly it was him, but if he’d got into that horde outside we’d never have known.’

  Hervey nodded.

  ‘I’m only sorry I hadn’t the satisfaction of knowing it when I fired. But at least I may tell Colonel Bell that I avenged his wife’s murder.’

  ‘Indeed so. I confess I quite dread to see him tomorrow.’

  ‘But then you too can claim the same.’

  ‘I suppose so – but in truth it was the snake.’

  ‘Ah, so you haven’t had tell?’

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘They found the sampera afterwards and took him to fish it out so they could get the body to the pyre. Its mouth was sewn up. They only ever used the pit to fright.’

  Hervey shook his head slowly. ‘This … country.’

  XXVII

  The Fruits of Victory

  St Mary’s Church, Fort St George, two months later

  TO THE MEMORY OF

  LIEUT. COLONEL CHARLES MILL

  HIS MAJESTY’S 55TH REGIMENT

  KILLED ON THE 3RD OF APRIL 1834 WHILST GALLANTLY LEADING ON HIS REGIMENT TO THE ATTACK AGAINST THE STOCKADE OF SOMARPETT, IN THE TERRITORY OF HIS HIGHNESS THE RAJAH OF COORG. EM
INENTLY DISTINGUISHED AS A SOLDIER THROUGH A PERIOD OF NEARLY FORTY YEARS, HE SERVED WITH THE BRITISH ARMY DURING ITS MOST EVENTFUL EPOCHS: AND HIS EXAMPLE OF COURAGE AND GALLANTRY INSPIRED HIS FOLLOWERS ON ALL OCCASIONS WITH THAT BRAVERY AND FORTITUDE SO CONSPICUOUS AT THE ASSAULT IN WHICH HE FELL. IN PRIVATE LIFE HE WAS UNIVERSALLY ESTEEMED. DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF HIS REGIMENT AND THE HAPPINESS OF THOSE WHO SERVED UNDER HIM, HIS MEMORY WILL LONG BE CHERISHED WITH SENTIMENT OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT, AND HIS PREMATURE DEATH CONTINUE A SOURCE OF THE DEEPEST REGRET TO ALL, MORE PARTICULARLY HIS BROTHER OFFICERS WHO HAVE IN HIM LOST A BRAVE LEADER, AND A KIND FRIEND, AND WHO HAVE ERECTED THIS TABLET IN TRIBUTE TO HIS WORTH.

  ÆTAT. 54.

  Fifty-four years of age – ten years and more his senior – and still commanding a battalion. Yet Mill was held in greater esteem than many a general. What therefore did he, Hervey, have to regret in being still at the head of so fine a corps as the Sixth?

  Nothing.

  The regiment was in as great a state of efficiency as it was possible – certainly as it was reasonable – to conceive. He would wager that he had the finest of officers of any in His Majesty’s Land Forces. He had non-commissioned officers who’d be the envy of many a colonel, thanks to Armstrong and those who’d gone before. But these things could not abide: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. Ecclesiastes, ‘The words of the Preacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem’, words he returned to often, for they spoke truly. Now especially, perhaps, the Preacher’s peroration was apt: Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?

  He was resolved that the Sixth would raise a tablet of equal elegance for Major Garratt, In Memoriam, ‘In tribute to his worth’, and to the others of the regiment who’d died in the territory of Her Highness the Ranee of Chintal. But for the time being, at least, the service that morning was their tribute, a church parade that for once few dragoons resented, for besides honouring their former comrades it was a promise that they in their turn would not be forgotten.

  They’d sung heartily too, and the band had never sounded better – two dozen bandsmen, now, and the finest of instruments, the new bandmaster come from England with the best that money could buy: cornets by Köhler of Covent Garden, clarionets by Triébert of Paris; even an ophicleide – and all the bounty of Major Garratt’s clever dealing in bills of exchange (and, indeed, his ‘fines’ on merchants who’d served the regiment ill). The band alone would be a fitting memorial, as well as a daily rebuke that he, Hervey, had doubted his second in command and then condoned (there was no other word for it) the ‘crime’ by arranging a convenient posting. ‘Prudential judgement’, he’d called it. But doubtless he’d reconcile himself to the condonation (and sooner than he ought).

  ‘Thank you, Mr Coote. Admirable sermon.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  In truth, he’d heard better. To begin with, the text (Samuel), excited too many passions: Then Nahash the Ammonite came up, and encamped against Jabesh Gilead: and all the men of Jabesh said unto Nahash, Make a covenant with us, and we will serve thee … For there could be no ‘covenants’ in a regiment. Officers must lead, and men must follow. That was an end to it.

  Coote had made favourable comparison with the regiment’s conduct at Chintalpore, though. They’d dealt benevolently with their captives; in the main, certainly. But it was done for no gain. Perhaps his mind had wandered. Doubtless the chaplain had thought it instructive and rousing; and he had, after all, detained them for really very little time. The lessons were well read, at least. Troop Serjeant-Major Wainwright had as good a voice for the chapel as for the parade. (If Armstrong had been laid low at Chintalpore for any longer than he had, he’d have made Wainwright his man.) And Cornet Kynaston’s carried with the same clarity he must have sung with as a chorister at Westminster.

  They were a fine sight too, his dragoons, as they fell in now for the march back to the lines. They had the look of men proud to be of their corps. It was true that on the whole the cavalry could count on a better class of recruit than the infantry, but even so, it was remarkable what riding school and skill-at-arms did for men of scarcely higher station or learning. There’d be English beer and best Madras pasties when they were back in the lines, but no speeches, just a toast: ‘Absent Friends.’ And all ranks would mingle, secure in the principle that in an association where one member was the subordinate of another, the superior would never think of it, and the subordinate would never forget it – assisted, of course, by the all-seeing eye of the serjeant-major.

  The chaplain excused himself, never altogether at ease in Hervey’s company. St Alban took his place.

  ‘A fine church parade, Colonel.’

  ‘I think it very properly done, Edward. It would perhaps have served better had we done it at once, at Chintalpore, but two months is hardly too long, and I would have had to wear a general’s coat.’

  St Alban was glad enough, too, if only that he himself might be present – might take charge, indeed – which he most certainly could not have done from his hospital bed. ‘And it was right to include Waterman in the roll call. I shouldn’t have doubted it.’

  ‘If you don’t speak your doubts, Edward, you’re of no use to me as adjutant, as you very well know.’

  ‘Indeed, Colonel. And we’ll never know the truth now the provost marshal’s concluded the scent is cold. That there is no scent, in point of fact.’

  Especially now that Askew, given his free discharge, was on passage home. (The Duke had said that pardon ought to follow the performance of a duty of trust, but it was another thing to keep such a man in plain sight.)

  ‘The truth will out,’ said Hervey decidedly. ‘If there was mischief. Though “when” is the question. In a regiment there can be no secret for ever.’

  ‘No, I suppose not … With your leave, then, Colonel?’

  ‘Go to it. March them off to a good swing. The band’s in fine voice.’

  Others then left him to his thoughts.

  For this was the church in which Clive himself had worshipped – and married. That greatest of generals in India would surely have approved the parade, and in what cause – the extension of the King’s Peace. Approved it probably a good deal more than Bentinck appeared to do, whose letter had seemed to Hervey a muted affair.

  No, the other officers were giving their pensive colonel a wide berth. There’d be opportunity to speak at the tamasha, if need be.

  Except for the surgeon. His age and calling always set him apart a little, and besides, there was a matter that wasn’t for the festivities.

  He raised his bicorn as he came up.

  Hervey smiled warmly. ‘Doctor, the dragoons did you honour. I’ve not heard the like before.’

  When Milne had come into church, a little later than he ought, though all knew it would be on account of some invalid, the dragoons had shuffled their feet in acclamation.

  ‘Aye, well …’

  ‘You’ll come to Arcot House later?’

  ‘I shall, Colonel, don’t you fear.’

  ‘It will be as much comfort to Kezia as to me.’

  ‘Aye, well … It doesn’t do to trouble before it’s time. It’s like as not just a case of heat languor.’

  Hervey nodded. Except that the heat was hardly oppressive. (He hadn’t yet braced himself to ask if ‘puerperal melancholy’ could follow from still-birth.)

  ‘But, Colonel, there’s something I must tell you. Indeed, I ought to have done so many weeks ago. I think it only right you should know, for it touches on my judgement.’

  ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘When we were at Sthambadree, before Chintal, I had word of Mrs Hervey’s miscarriage. I was minded to bring it to you at once, naturally, but was uncertain. I asked Garratt’s opinion. He said he would not tell you, for although he believed it would not divert you from duty, such a
thing was bound to intrude at some time on the judgements of any man of feeling, and he couldn’t risk that intrusion being for the ill. The lives of too many men were at stake. He said that I must do what was proper as regards my profession, but also that as an officer I must have regard to the operation on which we were to embark. And so I chose not to inform you – until later, that is. I tell you this now, not to excuse myself by laying blame on Garratt, but so that you might judge for yourself.’

  Hervey put a hand on the surgeon’s shoulder. ‘My dear Milne, your sensibility – nay, your integrity – does you proud. Your judgement likewise. Garratt spoke exactly as I’d have wished. And nor, I believe, would Kezia have wished it. Have not the slightest thought of the matter any more.’

  Milne was quite visibly relieved. ‘Colonel.’

  ‘And you’ll stay and have some supper?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  In the circumstances it was hardly an invitation he could turn down. Besides, heat languor was a very speculative diagnosis – hopeful, perhaps even desperate. Observing Kezia at table (if she were able to rise from her bed) in the company of family would be of advantage.

  Hervey cleared his throat. ‘The gauskot – naught but a boy, says Sammy. Will he live?’

  ‘Ah, the gauskot …’ It was as good a way of changing the subject as any, if with no more certain a prognosis than he could give for Kezia. ‘Kraits, Colonel: why does any man become a grass-cutter?’

  But with his conscience now clear, Milne could take his leave, letting Hervey resume his thoughts – or rather, now, contemplation of the ladies. For it was a good turnout – even Dorothea Worsley, and so soon after giving birth, standing in admirably for Kezia and presenting the serjeants’ wives to the Somerviles. (It was good of Eyre to come too, he thought, for he knew there was much to do in his last few days here.) Georgiana was speaking animatedly with a clutch of cornets, while Annie was doing so with rather greater reserve to Captain Malet. Poor Annie, he said to himself: she’d first met Malet when a chambermaid at the Berkeley Arms. What a trial it must be for her to comport herself as a governess, a lady, when all and sundry knew she’d served at table – not that it seemed a trial for Malet. But, he hardly need remind himself, Annie wasn’t the chambermaid at the Berkeley Arms any more. She neither looked nor sounded the part. What a progress it had been. And if ever there could be doubt as to her goodness of heart, there were two dozen and more officers and dragoons who knew otherwise from the hospital at Chintalpore. And the bodyguard. Indeed, when Suneyla had bid him farewell, she’d made special mention of her, and given her a pigeon-blood ruby the size of a plumstone. If – God forbid – Kezia were to have any prolonged prostration, he’d have to rely on Annie more than ever. That is, if she’d want to stay in India now. Or if she did, that it wouldn’t be to take up an offer from one of the Company ensigns. She must, of course, at some time; and she was sure to be well received here in India. Indeed, even on returning home she’d be received well, for like the matriarchs of Ancient Rome who made a point of never inquiring into the origins of a wife if her husband had been long on the frontiers, the hostesses of London did not bar their drawing rooms to those who could conduct themselves decorously …