The Taragarh looked deserted. Jack led his escort up the long sloping ramp towards the heavily protected gates. This time there was no traffic, no carts jostling and pushing as they were forced to wait for entry. The gates were open and unguarded. The mighty fortress of the maharajahs of Sawadh had finally been overcome. Not through siege or escalade, but by the complete defeat of the army that defended the walls and guarded its gates.
A single rider rode to greet them. At first Jack thought it was a boy, the only one left to greet the remnants of the lancers who had ridden from the same fortress with such hope and pride just days before.
He halted the lancers, letting the rider approach. It was only as it got closer that Jack recognised the slim figure, the face that had once beguiled him now grey and stricken with grief and fear. Lakshmi’s eyes searched his face, as if trying to find something she had lost.
Jack watched as she looked past him and saw the body he had come to deliver. Her eyes betrayed nothing, yet he saw the tears as she pulled at the reins, turning away from the man who had come to destroy any lingering hope in her heart.
He followed her, entering the Star Fort for the last time.
‘You are a brave man, General Lark. Or a foolish one.’
Jack turned as he recognised the voice. He had been standing in the room of the Ramayana paintings. He had walked the familiar corridors of the palace, the memories of his life there haunting him. The place was deserted, the fabulous decorations intact but somehow now faded, as if life itself had fled. He had found himself in his favourite place, his feet taking him there without conscious thought. He had thought to rest, his battered body begging for some respite. He was still wrapped in the grime of the battlefield, the blood of his enemies mixed with that he himself had shed. He had hidden the filth under the dusty blue uniform he had retrieved from its hiding place, and now he faced the Maharajah dressed in the trappings of the life he had forsaken.
‘It was my duty.’ Jack’s own voice was cold.
The Maharajah said nothing. He stared at Jack for a long time. Neither flinched from the scrutiny of the other. Jack saw the pain etched into the king’s face, the grey pallor of grief stealing the vibrancy from his face. He looked as empty as his palace, his vitality swamped by the bitterness of defeat.
‘Thank you.’ When the Maharajah spoke, it was barely even in a whisper. ‘Thank you for returning my son to me.’
‘He needed to be brought home. I was honoured to escort him.’ There was little sympathy in Jack’s voice. There had been too much death for him to feel pity.
The Maharajah cupped his hand over his eyes. Jack could see the shudders that racked his body. When the hand fell away, he saw an old man.
‘You and the Count were right. You English do not accept defeat.’ The words were spoken without emotion, the Maharajah’s eyes blank.
‘You must do as they tell you now. You will be treated well.’
The Maharajah waved the words away. ‘Nothing matters any more.’
‘Of course it matters.’ Jack’s voice was brittle, but it was sharp too. ‘Your people need you more than ever. You led them to this place. You cannot forsake them now.’
The Maharajah looked as if he had been slapped. ‘Do not dare to tell me my duty.’ He was vibrating with emotion, his face stricken with a mixture of grief and despair.
‘I dare tell you, for it must be said.’ Jack spoke without hesitation, the voice of an officer to a subordinate. ‘You chose to go to war. Now you must deal with the peace you have forced on your people.’
He let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. His fingers brushed the sharkskin grip. It was mottled now, stained with blood and with sweat. It was no longer the pristine weapon of a prince. It was the bloody tool of a killer.
The blade rasped as he pulled it from the scabbard, the noise loud in the quiet of the room. The balance of the weapon was still perfect, and Jack held it in his hand, feeling the power of the beautiful steel.
He reached across with his left hand and took hold of the blade. The edge was notched and pitted, the marks of combat etched deep. He had done his best to clean it, but flecks of blood were still stuck in the swirling script that decorated the talwar’s faces, the residue of men’s lives embedded in the steel.
He hefted the sword, then turned the blade, offering it hilt first to the Maharajah. ‘This is yours.’
The Maharajah said nothing. He looked at the sword. His hand twitched, the fingers reaching instinctively to take the grip, then went still. He looked at Jack, fixing him with a stare that contained a spark of his former power.
‘No. I have no need of a sword any more. The days of fighting are done. It is yours and yours alone.’ He stood back, taking a step away from the man he had once sheltered. ‘You are right to chastise me.’ He looked at Jack for a long time without speaking. ‘I think perhaps I underestimated you, Jack Lark.’
‘Perhaps.’ Jack had endured enough of kings. He felt the urge to leave, to get away from men with ambition. He suddenly felt foolish, standing holding out his sword in some theatrical gesture. He reversed the blade and thrust it back into its scabbard, a flicker of anger forcing away the sadness that had engulfed him since he had first seen Lakshmi riding towards him.
‘Perhaps.’ The Maharajah repeated the word softly. Then his face hardened. ‘I will do as you say. I must lead my people, even though my heart is broken and my country will be swallowed by you monstrous British.’
‘You must. The time for resistance is over. A new agent will come. He will treat you better than Proudfoot. He will ask you to sign another treaty, one that will let us rule here. Your time is done.’
Jack had nothing more to say. Too many men had died for him to feel sympathy, their lives sacrificed at the altar of the Maharajah’s pride and Proudfoot’s ambition. He took a step back, preparing to leave the Maharajah for the last time.
‘Where will you go?’ The Maharajah stopped him before turning and sitting heavily in a gilded chair that faced the window.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What of Miss Youngsummers?’
Jack bridled at the sudden flurry of questions. ‘She has no need of me. She needs a good man, not a killer.’ He remembered Isabel’s face as she had dressed the wound to his arm. He had seen her fear, her tiredness. He could not stay in her life. She deserved more.
‘Perhaps you are both.’ The Maharajah looked past Jack. He was staring at the small courtyard outside the window. The ornate fountain at its heart was silent, the water that gave it life gone.
Jack looked at the man who had once been king. ‘No. I am one and one alone.’
He said nothing more. He left the Maharajah to stare into nothingness and walked away.
The loud voices of the hawkers and the boldest stallholders called to the tall sahib who rode through the packed streets, each begging for his attention with their fantastical promises and unsubtle suggestions. The rider studiously ignored the entreaties, pushing away the bewildering array of objects that were thrust towards him. It made for slow progress along the narrow paved streets that wound their way through the city like a maze, but the rider did not care. He was in no hurry.
He watched a group of small boys playing at marbles as he rode by, their playground a gutter full of filth. The boys were naked save for golden cords around their necks and the gold and silver bangles on their wrists and ankles. One gleeful boy was clapping another hard on the back, the downcast expression on the second boy’s face telling all who had won and who had lost. The crowd of at least thirty other boys were cheering at the tops of their lungs, the loud shouts of ‘khoob! khoob!’ drowning out even the most enthusiastic merchants.
The rider edged his horse around a filthy fakeer who sat plum in the middle of the narrow street, holding his palm aloft to display the scruffy tree growing through t
he centre of his hand. The manoeuvre took him close to the next stalls, and he was immediately besieged by eager merchants keen to have him part with his money. Yet something in the white-faced rider’s face deterred even the most avaricious stallholder from pressing too close, the beautifully decorated talwar that hung at his hip too well used to be worn solely for decoration.
Authoritarian voices bellowed for attention and the rider edged his horse into a gap between the stalls as a palki pushed through the crowd. The curtains were pulled together, but there was enough of a gap for the rider to snatch a glimpse of a doe-eyed beauty reclining on scarlet cushions, the vision of loveliness disappearing quickly as her bearers jogged past.
He eased his horse back into the throng, taking care to steer a wide path around a group of hard-faced men mounted on sturdy mountain ponies, doing his best to ignore the appraising gazes that ran over him. This was no place for a fight, but still his hand crept to the holstered revolver at his hip, his fingers deftly undoing the buckle that held the flap in place. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the men from the hills. They saw too the anger in the eyes that flashed over them, and they let the stranger past.
The crowd thinned out as the loud calls from the minarets echoed through the tightly packed streets, the faithful called away to prayer. The rider hesitated, as if suddenly unsure of where he was headed, before he pulled off the street and passed through an intricately carved doorway and into an empty courtyard.
The place was an oasis after the jostling crowds of the thoroughfare. A marble fountain tinkled gently, the sound of moving water calming and cooling after the bedlam of the street.
The syces leapt to their feet as the rider eased himself wearily from the saddle, the young boys undoing the straps that held his belongings on his horse’s back before his feet had even hit the ground.
‘Welcome, sahib, welcome.’ The owner of the hotel came bustling out from a room that overlooked the courtyard, hastily brushing the flakes of pastry from his white robes as he advanced on the tired rider. ‘You have chosen a fine establishment for your stay.’
Something in the rider’s flat stare made the owner pause. But he was too eager for the coins in the man’s saddlebags to remain silent for long.
‘Yes, sahib, this is a fine hotel. I shall give you the best room, yes, the very best room.’ He clapped his hands, shooing the young boys into the whitewashed corridor that led into the interior of the hotel.
‘Now, sahib, let me prepare you some refreshment! I have the very best Bass’s beer, just what you need to clear the dust from your throat. Yes that’s the very thing.’
More servants were sent running from the courtyard as the owner bowed at the waist and ushered the tall visitor into the shady interior of the hotel. ‘This way, sahib. This way.’
The grey-eyed rider let himself be shown inside, the marble floors and white walls beautifully cool after the heat of the late-morning sun.
‘May I ask your name, sahib?’
The tall man stopped and turned to face the owner, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. He let the silence stretch out, causing much hand-wringing from the anxious hotel owner, who wondered what offence the simple enquiry had caused. At last he spoke.
‘My name is Fenris.’ The man was curt, his voice clipped. ‘Lieutenant Arthur Fenris.’
I must start my historical note with an apology. The kingdom of Sawadh did not exist, and the story of Proudfoot and his bloody plans for annexation is nothing more than the product of my imagination. However, I wanted to write about the last days of the East India Company’s rule in India, and so the wonderful Maharajah and his colourful land came into being.
It now seems preposterous that a commercial company whose sole motivation was the creation of profit should be allowed to govern an entire country. Yet for one hundred years that is what happened in India. Jack arrives as the British East India Company’s great power is at its peak, its unfettered management (some would say mismanagement) of the jewel in the British Crown shortly to come to an end in the ferocious storm of the Indian Mutiny.
In such an environment, men like Proudfoot thrived. These political officers were entrusted with enormous responsibility and pretty much left alone to run whole countries, some bigger than England itself. With few resources they were expected to govern in Britain’s name, responsible for everything from taxation to the dispensation of justice. It is no wonder that so many became the splendid characters that make the history of the Victorian British Empire so fascinating.
The Doctrine of Lapse, instigated by the Governor General, Lord Dalhousie, in 1848, is all too real, as is the fate of Jhansi, Satara and Nagpur, all of which were annexed under the doctrine. Annexation was also the fate of Oudh in 1856, and many historians have pointed to Dalhousie’s heavy-handed approach to diplomacy as one of the contributory factors that led to the wholesale slaughter of the Indian Mutiny. It is hard to look back on the policies instigated by the East India Company and feel much pride, but as a storyteller I have to be thankful for the events that created such a vibrant world against which to set Jack’s story.
Anyone wanting to learn about the astonishing men of this time would do well to start with Shooting Leave by John Ure, or Soldier Sahibs by Charles Allen. For more on the lives of the men sent to fight in Britain’s most successful colony, I can heartily recommend the superlative Sahib, by Richard Holmes. I am forever in debt to this peerless historian.
My apology must also extend to the men of the 24th Foot and the 12th Bengal Native Infantry. Both are regiments who served in India at the time; however, I must admit to stealing the four companies away from their historical duties so I could use them in my story.
The 24th would go on to become one of the best known of all British infantry regiments for their disastrous defeat by the Zulus at Isandlwana, followed by the extraordinary efforts of their B Company on 22 January 1879 at Rorke’s Drift. Both events live on, especially in the minds of impressionable young boys like me who sit riveted by the films Zulu and Zulu Dawn. It is worth noting that the regiment’s famous ‘Welshness’ is something of a myth. They did not become the South Wales Borderers until 1 July 1881, and so for both the time of my story and that of the fight against the Zulus, they were still very much the 2nd Warwickshires and as English as any other regiment of the time.
The 12th Bengal Native Infantry would also find fame, although for much more sinister reasons. In the dreadful bloodletting of the Indian Mutiny, they would turn against their British masters, and a wing of the regiment was present when the garrison of Jhansi mutinied on 5 June 1857. The subsequent massacre of the fifty-six Christian inhabitants of the city is just another in a long list of atrocities committed by both sides in the brutal fight between the rebels and their British rulers.
Jack’s time with the British army is now done, for the moment at least, and he faces having to rebuild his life after the cataclysm of battle. Yet he is a survivor and he will march again, no matter how many obstacles appear in his path. He has now enjoyed a meteoric rise to the rank of general, followed by an equally spectacular fall to being nothing more than a humble redcoat. The experience will only serve to galvanise his desire to better himself and to prove just how far an urchin from the rookeries of London can go.
The Maharajah's General Page 34
