Hervey weighed their words for a little longer. ‘Very well, wait here if you please … Mr Neale, stay with the deewah and her husband while I think on it.’
The khitmagars were now up, despite all the attempts at stealth (he supposed the chowkidar …). In a mish-mash of Urdu and Tamul he asked them to bring coffee to his room, which they seemed to understand.
‘I suspect it will have to do instead of sleep tonight,’ he said to St Alban.
Hervey was not unused to taking decisions at the witching hour, but it made it no less difficult. ‘What are your thoughts?’ he asked, opening the window onto the balcony just enough to see if there was anything to see (which there was not, only a dim moon).
‘In general, Colonel, that if so insignificant a place as Coorg gives Leadenhall Street so great a concern, the omens for the Company aren’t auspicious. But in the particular, honour demands we afford the deewah and her husband safe passage to Bangalore, else the word “Honourable” should be expunged from the Company’s title.’
‘A speech worthy of Mr Fox, for sure, but I was thinking more on how precisely we might proceed. I wish I had Neale in my confidence, but … Where’s that damned coffee?’
St Alban looked somewhat penitent. ‘I may inadvertently have taken Neale into that confidence, I’m afraid, Colonel, for I told the deewah she was now in our protection; and I should hardly have done so were we here on a merely tributary visit.’
Hervey nodded. He’d be glad if Neale had indeed put two and two together.
Coffee came, but with no sign that the khitmagar thought it unusual in the middle of the night. That much was promising.
‘Colonel, if I may: as soon as the rajah learns his sister’s fled to Mysore, which he surely will in but hours, he’ll come raging back here. But we can’t fold up our beds in the night. That will only signify deceit and put him even more on his guard, even if he makes no connection between her and us.’
Hervey drained his cup and poured more. ‘That we agree. Go on.’
‘The bearers and all can go at once, though, and the deewah, so that it’s just you and the corporals tomorrow. If you make your call on the palace as early as is decent, then we might make Kushalnagar before the rajah hears of her.’
‘Jack down the beanstalk.’
St Alban grimaced. ‘Having taken a deal of gold.’
XX
Forests of the Night
Later
HERVEY HAD STRUCK camp many a time in the early hours, but he couldn’t recall seeing it done with more despatch than this. The bearers, syces and grasscutters rose from their charpoys and bedrolls without complaint or question, with no noise but murmur and the occasional whinny from the bat-horses, and stowed and loaded every last piece brought up the hill from Kushalnagar. It was done in the space of an hour, so that by three o’clock, led on foot by Neale, all the impedimenta of the mission was marching east again, with, in their midst, the deewah and her husband and their two most trusted servants. When daylight came, Hervey walked across the abandoned ground and found nothing remaining but what might be consumed in the space of a few hours by ants and their collaborators. He would have St Alban pay the khansamah generously, in the way of one who stayed in another’s house, trusting that he in turn would give the khitmagars, cooks and others of the household their due, and also the mali (or whatever in the Coorg language the gardener was called), in whose charge lay the campground. He intended leaving Madkerry having observed every politeness. It was only right; and if he was ever to return, it was only prudent.
After breakfast, which they ate together on the verandah, the party made ready for the palace: two officers and four non-commissioned officers of His Majesty’s 6th Light Dragoons (Princess Augusta’s Own) – in that moment and place the figurehead of the Honourable East India Company; indeed, of His Majesty’s imperium. Just six dragoons – six sabres only, though as sharp as may be; four carbines and two pairs of pistols – all loaded, discreetly, before leaving. But as envoys of the greatest power on earth, what in truth was there to fear?
As they were mounting, however, the vakeel came. He looked disconcerted, whether because his horse, an arab, was unsettled, or the other way round, Hervey couldn’t know. Either way it made for an awkward salutation, especially on an empty campground – which, overlooked from the fort, must have been the reason for his sudden appearance.
‘His Highness is returned, Colonel Hervey. He wishes for no delay in receiving you.’
Hervey cursed beneath his breath: arabs were ever sensitive to anxious hands. What else might he do but answer boldly, however? ‘Very good; we come at once, Pemma Virappa-sahib.’
In ten minutes, though (if they walked, not trotted), he’d have to think how to extricate himself. He cursed that he’d not anticipated the rajah’s return – if, that is, he had ever been where the vakeel (and the deewah) had said he’d been.
‘I fear I must decline any hospitality, vakeel-sahib. I am recalled to duty. The rajah will understand.’
He was averse to casual lies, lies of mere convenience; they had to stand judgement as ruses de guerre. Were they at war, though? If he didn’t proceed on the assumption that in an instant they might be, then in that same instant they might be dead.
The vakeel could say nothing, which only confirmed his misgivings.
He turned to St Alban. ‘At the palace, two to guard the horses and two to march at attention and present arms at my command. You understand?’
He did. ‘Mais pas armes blanches?’
It was a risk – French had once been spoken in the Carnatic – but in the circumstances …
‘Exactement.’ He could hardly unship his pistols from the saddle, but they would at least have two carbines – three with Acton’s.
Johnson had reckoned it not much of a palace, and nor did Hervey. In Wiltshire it might have been a tithe barn, if a substantial one. Only the line of chowdigars in front marked it out as special.
The vakeel began explaining that this was but one of the rajah’s palaces. ‘They are many and elsewhere also. He would wish to receive you at Soamwar Pettah, his favoured, but he will understand that he cannot claim your presence, for you are commanded to return to Madras.’
The words seemed excessively formal even by the vakeel’s standards. Doubtless they’d been composed with the rajah – if the rajah spoke English, that is – but at least it meant they would be not long detained.
He drew the party aside, and dismounted. ‘Corporal Melia, muster yonder by that lower wall, not here. Keep a clear line to the gates, and sharp on your guard. We may have to make haste.’
‘Colonel.’
His expression said he understood exactly. Melia was a pug. He’d have no trouble.
The others shouldered carbines and came to attention.
‘Very well, vakeel-sahib,’ he called.
The vakeel looked uneasy. Evidently he’d not expected an escort, but equally evidently he couldn’t think how to bar them.
In they marched, St Alban bearing the gifts.
Through the arched entrance was a courtyard with a fountain and ornamental trees, and a gallery on three sides. Hervey supposed it served as an ante-chamber. But he didn’t like being overlooked.
He removed his cap. It was better, he thought, to bow than salute – a courtesy rather than a gesture of subordination.
The vakeel shifted even more anxiously, in turn putting Acton on edge, who scanned the gallery like a hawk. The escorts remained at attention, while Hervey waited with studied unconcern for the next move. There was nothing else he could do.
Five minutes later the eruption of courtiers and attendants signalled the coming of the rajah.
The corporals presented arms. Acton stood at attention with his carbine at the port. It looked as if he were on parade, but his eyes continued to rove the dark places, and now the rajah’s party. The carbine could be in the aim in an instant.
The rajah was a man of no great stature, about Hervey’s age
– perhaps younger – round-faced, with sallow skin, large dark eyes and soft features. This was not the image of a tyrant or of depravity, as Hervey had half expected, but it was not impossible to imagine indulgence taken to excess.
‘Good morning to you, Colonel Hervey,’ he said, his voice pleasing enough, without excessive modulation as was the case with many a native of India, and above all, measured. ‘You are most welcome.’
Hervey bowed. ‘Your highness, I have presents from the governor at Fort St George, Sir Eyre Somervile, small tokens of the Company’s association with your highness’s raj.’
St Alban advanced with the silver and sandalwood box in which were the tokens of ‘association’ – such a convenient word. And the ornamental sword. A servant took them from him.
‘I understand that you must leave presently for your duties elsewhere, Colonel, but I would have you take some refreshment.’
Hervey thanked him.
Khitmagars came forward with trays of sherbet.
There followed a not entirely easy exchange of pleasantries – the rajah was reluctant to meet Hervey’s gaze – but somehow ten minutes passed without mishap. Then the rajah put down his cup and stepped back, the signal for his assemblage to step back several additional paces too, so that there was once again a distinct separation between the parties.
Hervey put his heels together. Acton’s hand tensed unseen on the carbine butt, ready for any treachery.
‘And so, Colonel Hervey, you have had opportunity to see our country and our seat here, and our people. You will think, perhaps, that it is a place of welcome for those who are indeed welcome, as you. But not, perhaps, for those who wish us harm.’
Still the rajah’s eyes did not meet his. It was, perhaps, unsurprising, for the rajah issued a warning, a threat indeed; and to do so to a representative of the Honourable Company was a perilous thing. Yet in not meeting Hervey’s eyes, he revealed his uncertainty, whatever he said of his country’s fastness. And that indeed was invaluable to know.
Then it was over, the rajah turning on his heels without farewell.
Hervey bowed.
What to make of it?
It wasn’t the time.
They left the fort at a brisk trot, halting only as the road entered the forest, whence he watched for a good quarter of an hour to see if they were followed.
They were not. ‘Very well, Edward. Let’s away. I’ll tell you what I think the rajah said.’
* * *
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK-CRACK!
Four bullets – one so close that it near kissed his cheek. A fifth made no pass. It struck Johnson in the arm, tumbling him from the saddle. Corporal Hanks sprang to his side. Acton had his carbine unshipped and in the aim in a split second. But where?
Hervey was trying to fathom it. Just a dozen more miles to the Cauvery. Why here?
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack-crack!
A bullet struck Johnson’s mare in the shoulder, and then another St Alban’s boot.
Acton had closed up. ‘Into the trees, Colonel!’
Hervey was making for them already.
Crack! Crack!
Two misses, but he saw the muzzle flash and jumped down.
Acton followed. And Corporal Melia – then St Alban, limping.
Crack!
Splinters from an ironwood tree bloodied Melia’s cheek.
Crack! – but from behind. And a yelp a dozen yards in front.
‘One’s down, Colonel,’ spat Acton, already reloading.
Hervey began weaving his way forward to down more. Pride came before an ambush, and he’d walked into it.
Crack! – uncertain from where.
He came on the half-dead, half-naked marksman, with Acton at his side.
Melia closed up, still tamping a new charge. ‘I saw ’im fall, Colonel – just yonder,’ nodding to their left.
Hervey thought they’d come far enough – too far, even. Fifty yards in forest like this and it could take all day to find the way back.
The man groaned and opened his eyes.
Melia picked up his rifle. ‘By God, Colonel, this isn’t country-made.’
‘Huli,’ sighed the Coorg.
‘What?’
He groaned again. ‘Huli.’
Acton gathered up a handful of leaf mould and pressed it to the hole in his chest.
‘Water?’ said Hervey. (Huli – what else could he mean?)
Melia unslung his flask and put it to the Coorg’s mouth. A drop or two went down but he coughed it up again at once.
‘Huli.’
He lay staring, terror-struck almost. Hervey just couldn’t tell.
‘Water’s no good with this wound, Colonel,’ said Acton, blood covering his hands.
He was right. In a few seconds more the eyes fell shut, all life departed.
‘Curse it! We need more than a single word. We’d better find the other, dead or no.’
Hervey could no more leave a wounded enemy than he could leave wounded game. And if they could get him to talk …
The forest here wasn’t jungled – it hadn’t been thinned, the light let in and a thick undergrowth therefore – but it still seemed an age to find him; and dead. His rifle wasn’t country-made either.
How many had got away then? Three, certainly – the shots had come too quickly. Had they had two rifles apiece, perhaps? But no uniform like the chowdigars. A mistake maybe – a hunting party? Then why had they fired at them? Surely they’d seen? No; it was an ambush. That was why the rajah had summoned him – to be able to send his henchmen distant. Why, though? What would it profit him? It would surely bring down the wrath of the Company.
But now wasn’t the time to be fathoming. He cursed again. ‘Back,’ he said simply. They’d given drink to the thirsty; there was no time for other corporal works of mercy, just a leafy shrouding. And – his stomach tightened – how was Johnson?
They picked up the rifles and cast about for signs of whence they’d come. It was remarkable how few there were in the forest, always, though doubtless to a native they made a trail as clear as would a plough.
It was several minutes, and it felt a lot more, but at last they picked up the paper trail – the cartridge paper. Still they moved cautiously, for to miss a sign would mean backtracking again.
In twenty yards – less – the trees formed a continuous screen, which was why they’d barely been able to fire an aimed shot. They stumbled onto the road eventually, rather than seeing it ahead.
Johnson was as white as any sheet, but more than conscious. ‘Jesus, Colonel; I thought I’d never see thee again.’
Hervey, crouching, put a hand to his shoulder.
‘Did yer get, ’em, Colonel? I ’ope so. Bastards, sneaking bastards!’
‘Two, yes. I don’t know how many more there were.’
Corporal Hanks staunched the bleeding with a wadding dressing. (Milne had had several hundred made up from cotton that the merchants of Bristol had given gratis.) The bullet remained, though, and there was no surgeon in fifty miles. Wounds in this climate …
But a step at a time. ‘Into the saddle, Corporal Johnson,’ said Hervey, trying hard not to sound anxious. ‘A good pull of brandy should do it. And then to Kushalnagar. We can’t dally here.’
‘I wouldn’t want to, Colonel. My mare’s ’ad it, though. Bastards.’
Corporal Melia was already seeing to her. She couldn’t put weight on the near-fore.
‘My other pistol, Corporal Melia.’
Johnson sipped readily at the flask while Melia saw to the despatch.
It was never agreeable to a dragoon, not even in the heat of battle, but it was neatly done. A handful of bread from his haversack to distract her, the muzzle into the fossa above her left eye and towards the opposite ear.
Crack!
She dropped where she stood, kicked out, twitched for a few seconds, then lay still.
‘Bastard Coorgs. She were a lovely little ’orse.’
‘You’ll tak
e mine,’ said Hervey.
The rissaldar greeted them with all the formalities. Beyond the lance guard in the middle of the bridge, however, was a business-like picket. No pursuers were going to be allowed across the Cauvery. Whether this was the rissaldar’s doing or Neale’s was no matter; Hervey was glad – relieved – to see it; and not least because by his own maxim (that of any light cavalry, indeed) he couldn’t count the enterprise at Madkerry an entire success – ‘Muzzle clean, mission thereby accomplished.’
But Neale’s mission had been accomplished at least: the deewah and her husband were safely got away, he reported – and swearing perpetual allegiance to the Company. The tributary elephant was by now, he was sure, at Seringapatam. Did Hervey wish him to strike camp, and march at once?
Only then did he see Corporal Johnson. ‘Rissaldar-huzoor: sarjana!’
‘You have a surgeon? I hadn’t known.’
‘He’s called that, Colonel, out of courtesy.’
Hervey looked doubtful.
‘He’s very practised.’
Hanks and Melia had got Johnson down from the saddle and into the shade of a mango tree. He’d regained a little colour, for all the discomfort of the ride, but he was sweating more than the heat obliged.
When the ‘surgeon’ came – a daffadar with a beard that reached his chest – Johnson began sweating the more. ‘I don’t want physickin’ wi’ no ’Indoo stuff, Colonel.’
‘You’re in good hands. Mr Neale swears by him.’
The daffadar unrolled his canvas, to reveal the instruments of his unlicensed trade: knife, forceps, ligatures … Those, indeed, of any licentiate.
‘Brandy?’
Johnson shook his head. ‘No, Colonel; not in front o’ these.’
Hervey felt chastened.
The daffadar eased the tunic from Johnson’s shoulder, cut away the dressing, offered him a leather strop to bite on – which he refused – and took up a probe.
The Passage to India Page 25
