The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  “There was a new rumour in the bazaar this morning,” said the Magistrate as the General disappeared from view. “They say that because so many British were killed in the Crimea there’s nobody left in England for the memsahibs to marry. And so they’re going to be brought out here and forcibly married to the native landowners. Their children and the lands they own will thus become Christian.”

  The Collector frowned. “Let us pray that the General is no longer as sanguine as he was before Meerut.”

  As he finished speaking the General was announced and shown into the library where the Collector and the Magistrate were awaiting him. He flourished the cricket bat cheerfully as he stepped forward, saying: “Now Hopkins, about this cricket match. In my view it had better wait till after the monsoon...It’s much too hot as it is. What d’you think? I know your fellows want their revenge but they’ll just have to wait...”

  The Magistrate could tell by the expression of distress that appeared fleetingly between the Collector’s side-whiskers that they were both thinking the same thing: the General really had come to discuss a cricket match.

  “Just at the moment, General, we’re too concerned about the fires last night to think about cricket.”

  “Fires?”

  “The fires in the native lines at Captainganj last night. We fear that they may be a sign of an impending outbreak.”

  “Ah yes, I know the ones you mean,” said the General cautiously. “But you mustn’t let that worry you...The work of some malcontent.”

  “But General, in the light of Meerut...” The Collector wanted to discuss the prospect of disarming the native regiments. Even now this plan would be risky, he felt, but soon it would become impossible.

  But the General reacted to this proposal, for which he could see no earthly reason, first with astonishment, then with scorn and indignation. He refused to accept that the fires indicated disaffection among the sepoys and said so, testily...thinking, however, that Hopkins and Willoughby could hardly be blamed, in a way, because they were civilians and, like all civilians, spent their time either in pettifogging or in “croaking”...Now here they were, decent fellows in many ways, croaking like ravens.

  “Why should the sepoys attack their own billets if they were bent on mutiny?” he demanded. “They’d have set fire to the British bungalows if that’s what they were up to. As for Meerut, that’s a demmed long way from Captainganj, if you’ll forgive m’language. Special circumstances, too, shouldn’t be surprised. Can’t worry here what happens in China! Now look here, Hopkins, provided you fellows here in Krishnapur remain as usual, showing no sign of fear, everything will be alright...But it’ll be the devil’s own job for us to control our men at Captainganj if you start panickin’ here and diggin’ mud walls...”

  On his way to the Residency he had cast a contemptuous eye on the Collector’s fortifications. “Raise extra police with Mohammedan recruits, if you like. They’re more reliable than Hindus or native Christians, but don’t start a panic.”

  The Collector flushed, stung by the General’s scornful reference to “mud walls”; after a moment’s hesitation he asked: “How many English troops have you at Captainganj apart from officers of native regiments?”

  For a moment it looked as if the General might refuse to reply. “Odds’n’ends left from two or three companies on their way to Umballa...perhaps forty or fifty men.”

  “General,” said the Collector in a soothing tone, “I should like to know if you’d have any objection to the women and children being brought in?”

  “My dear Hopkins, either we rely on a display of confidence that the natives will behave properly, or we all fortify ourselves. We can hardly do both.” The General paused, exasperated. Normally, this discussion would have stimulated him to a fearful rage, but while walking up and down the library he had relinquished the cricket bat, which had become tiresome to carry, and at some stage his hand had closed over a book. This book caused him some distress because he was unable to remember whether it was in his hand to remind him of something or not. He had taken a surreptitious look at the title, which was Missionary Heroes and told him nothing.

  “Provided the civilians at Krishnapur don’t start showin’ fear I can guarantee that m’men will remain loyal. I am in complete control of the situation,” he declared, though with less certainty than before.

  “All the same, General, we can’t simply ignore the fires at Captainganj. To do so would be the height of folly.”

  “We will bring the culprit to book!” exclaimed the General suddenly, with such a burst of confidence that for a moment even the Collector looked encouraged.

  A week of indecision passed. News came of a massacre at Delhi but still the Collector hesitated to give the order for women and children to be brought into the Residency; he could see that there was some truth in what the General had said about showing fear; on the other hand, he continued surreptitiously to collect powder and provisions to store in the Residency in spite of the General’s disapproval. What he most needed were cannons and muskets or, even better, rifles...but he could not ask Captainganj to supply them without risking a fatal breach with the old General.

  Meanwhile, those in the cantonment who followed the General and had been advocating a “display of confidence” continued to recommend it...what had gone wrong at Meerut, they declared, was undoubtedly that the Europeans had begun to “croak”, had tried to make concessions. The Collector’s defensive measures, besides being ridiculous and inadequate, could very well generate the very danger they were supposed to guard against! At the same time, another question was being asked in the cantonment by the opposite and more timorous faction: namely, what was the point in feigning a confidence that no one felt and that in the eyes of the natives must appear quite baseless?

  But it is probable that the majority of people in the cantonment could not make up their minds as to the best course to follow. While the “confident” party recommended calm and indifference, and the “nervous” party were all for bolting to the Residency, the majority voted now for one course, now for the other, and sometimes even for both at once...a calm and confident bolting to the Residency.

  Fleury himself was, in principle, all for bolting, if that was what everybody wanted to do...but he knew so little about the country that he had no real way of knowing whether or not the time for bolting had come. He had no sensation of danger in the least. The result was that he tended, by default, to find himself in the “confident” camp...though, at the same time, quite ready to leg it for the Residency at the first sign of trouble.

  The Collector regretted the spirit of animosity that was developing in the cantonment between the two opposing factions. “After all,” he thought, “we both want the same thing: security for our lives and property...Why on earth should we be at each other’s throats? Why do people insist on defending their ideas and opinions with such ferocity, as if defending honour itself? What could be easier to change than an idea?” The Collector himself, however, did not yield an inch in his conviction that the only ultimate refuge lay behind his mud walls. Feuds began to break out between the two factions, exacerbated by the steadily mounting heat of the sun. They accused each other of endangering the lives of the innocent, of women and children. While one party seldom missed an opportunity of loitering unarmed and defenceless in the midst of the crowds that thronged the bazaar, the other never ventured a step from their bungalows unless clanking with weapons.

  The Collector, in a first and last effort to lead the community in a democratic manner, spent these days trying to devise measures which combined insouciance with defensive properties. In this spirit he had a number of heavy stone urns set up along one vulnerable stretch of the compound wall and planted with flowers, which promptly withered in the heat. Next, he declared that he wanted a stone wall along another weak section of the compound perimeter in order to shield the croquet lawn from the glare of the evening sun. While it was being built he showed a sudden flourish of patern
al indulgence by doggedly knocking balls through hoops in the company of his swooning elder daughters. His daughters at the best of times were not good at croquet, but now, on this sweltering patch of sun-baked earth...So the Collector won game after game, implacably, because it was his duty...and his daughters lost game after game, inevitably, because they were weak.

  5

  The Maharajah had his own army which although forbidden by law to carry firearms could still prove useful with sabres and the iron-bound bamboo staves, known as lâtees, with which most disputes among rival zemindars were traditionally settled. If it came to a fight whose side would the Maharajah’s troops be on? Of course they would be no match for the sepoys but they still might come in handy to frighten the badmashes in the bazaar. The Collector had to pay a routine visit to the opium factory some way out of Krishnapur and so it was decided that Fleury and Harry Dunstaple should accompany him for part of the way and pay a visit to the Maharajah’s palace which was not far from the opium factory...in normal circumstances a newcomer like Fleury might be expected to pay a casual visit of courtesy to the Maharajah to collect some exotic items of local colour for his diary, subsequently perhaps to be published under the title Highways and Byways of Hindustan, or something of that sort. At the same time the two young men might be able to see how the land lay with respect to the troops. It was, of course, out of the question to ask openly for the Maharajah’s support because such a question would imply a drastic lack of confidence. Besides, Harry, as a military man loyal to the General, could not have been expected to convey such a request. All the same, one never knew...perhaps the Maharajah’s son, Hari, whom Harry had met several times and who was a great favourite of the Collector’s might pledge this support without being asked.

  At the last moment Fleury discovered that Miriam had been invited to accompany the party; it appeared that she had displayed a sudden interest in the workings of an opium factory and that the Collector had decided she should see one for herself. Fleury was obscurely displeased by this discovery.

  “It may be perilous,” he grumbled.

  “It certainly won’t be more perilous, dearest Dobbin, than remaining by myself in a bungalow surrounded by native servants who are scarcely known to us,” replied Miriam with a smile. “Besides, I shall be in the company of Mr Hopkins. Surely that is protection enough.”

  “In Calcutta you said he had taken leave of his senses.”

  “On the contrary, sir, it was you who said that.”

  Fleury had noticed before that his sister seemed to become more animated in the Collector’s presence and he suspected her of some flirtatious design. While they were waiting for the Collector’s carriage to call for them he noticed further that Miriam was wearing her favourite bonnet, which she seldom wore merely in his own company. His sense of propriety was offended, as indeed it often was, but more by Miriam’s opinions than by her behaviour. Although adventurous in some respects, Fleury had rather strict ideas about how his elder sister should behave. But he could find nothing precisely to accuse her of. Regulating Miriam’s behaviour was made even more difficult by the fact that she had, to a large extent, supervised his own childhood. “And don’t call me ‘Dobbin’,” he added crossly as an afterthought.

  Ahead, the sun was rising above the rim of the plain into the dust-laden atmosphere. The Collector was in an expansive mood again: the motion of the open landau, the coolness and beauty of the morning filled him with confidence. He set himself to explain to Fleury about the character of rich natives: their sons were brought up in an effeminate, luxurious manner. Their health was ruined by eating sickly sweetmeats and indulging in other weakening behaviour. Instead of learning to ride and take up manly sports they idled away their time girlishly flying kites. Everything was for show with your rich native...he would travel the countryside with a splendid retinue while at home he lived in a pigsty. But fortunately, young Hari, the Maharajah’s son, had been educated by English tutors and was a different kettle of fish. To this information Harry Dunstaple added gruffly: “You have to be careful thrashing a Hindu, George, because they have very weak chests and you can kill them...Father says it’s a thinness of the pericardium.” Fleury murmured his thanks for this warning, indicating that he would do his best to hold himself back from the more fatal blows...but he privately hoped that the situation would not arise. He was still having difficulty adapting himself to his new “broad-shouldered” character.

  In due course they turned off their road on to another track which ran between fields of mustard, shining yellow and green. Ahead of them what looked like a mountain of dried mud shimmered over a scanty jungle of brush and peepul trees; the Collector uttered a grunt of pleasure: evidently the sight of so much mud reminded him of his own “mud walls”. As they got nearer, the mountain of mud transformed itself into high, shabby walls, unevenly battlemented. The track led towards massive wooden gates, bound and studded in iron, set between square towers of mud and plaster. These towers were not solid, Fleury noticed as the landau passed between them, but hollow and three-sided with an open floor of rafters built halfway up. The hollowed-out space seethed with soldiers, some practically naked, others amazingly uniformed like Zouaves with blue tunics and baggy orange trousers and armed to the teeth with daggers and clubs. Many of the more naked of the soldiers were still reclining, however, on the straw mattresses which covered the floor.

  “Rabble,” said Harry with a superior smile. “Our Adjutant, Chambers, says they’re no more use in a fight than the chorus at Covent Garden. Over there is where the so-called Prime Minister lives.” The building indicated by Harry was in the French style with balconies and shuttered windows. It had an abandoned air.

  They had passed into an outer courtyard, in the centre of which was a derelict fountain and a plot of grass where a hoopoe dug busily with its long beak. Pieces of wood, old mattresses and broken cartwheels lay around. To the left, between low buildings which might have been stables, stood another archway leading to the Maharajah’s apartments. They proceeded through into the next courtyard and halted by some stone steps to allow the young men to alight. Then the landau turned in a wide circle and bore the two silhouetted heads, one wearing a pith helmet, the other a bonnet, back towards the arches, beneath which they presently vanished.

  Fleury and Harry had promptly been surrounded by a swarm of servants in an extravagantly conceived but grimy livery; in the midst of this chattering throng they made their way along a stifling corridor, up another flight of steps and out on to a long stone verandah, where they at last felt a faint, refreshing breeze on their faces. Beside elaborately carved doors a guard in Zouave uniform dozed with his cheek against the shaft of a spear. Their host awaited them within, the servants explained, and they found themselves pushed forward in a gale of muffled giggles.

  The room they were thus urged into proved to be a delightful place, with an atmosphere of coolness, light and space; three of its walls were of blood-coloured glass alternating with mirrors and arranged in flower-shaped wooden frames; outside, green louvred shutters deflected the sunlight. Chandeliers of Bohemian glass hung in a line across the middle of the room with himalayas of crystal climbing between the lipped candle-glasses. Along the fourth wall, which was solid rather than of glass, ran primitive portraits of several past maharajahs. These faces stared down at the two young Englishmen with arrogance and contempt...though really it was just one face, Fleury noticed, as he passed along, repeated again and again with varying skill and in varying head-dresses, composed of coal-black eyes which seemed to be all pupil, and fat, pale cheeks garnished with a wispy black beard and mustache.

  Near a fireplace of marble inlaid with garnets, lapis lazuli and agate, the Maharajah’s son sat on a chair constructed entirely of antlers, eating a boiled egg and reading Blackwood’s Magazine. Beside the chair a large cushion on the floor still bore the impression of where he had been sitting a moment earlier; he preferred squatting on the floor to the discomfort of chairs but feared
that his English visitors might regard this as backward.

  “Hello there, Lieutenant Dunstaple,” he exclaimed, springing to his feet and striding forward to greet them, “I see you’ve been kind enough to bring Mr Fleury along...How splendid! How kind!” And he continued to give the impression of striding forward by a simulated movement which, however, only carried him a matter of inches towards his visitors and was a compromise between his welcoming nature, which urged him to advance and shake people warmly by the hand, and his status as the Maharajah’s heir, which obliged him to stand his ground and be approached. This mimed movement in the presence of inferiors entitled to some respect, which included all the British in India, had developed swiftly in the course of social contact with Europeans so that by now it had become not only quite unconscious, but also so perfect as utterly to destroy perspective. The result was that Fleury found himself having to advance a good deal further than he expected and arrived at his host somewhat off balance, his last few steps a succession of afterthoughts.