The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  He walked with Neale back to where the dragoons stood, Acton following within a sabre’s cut (he trusted no one, despite the overwhelming force standing on the hills behind them).

  ‘Can you be sure it’s he?’ asked Neale. ‘He’s made an art of perfidy.’

  There were six in the party, two female and one who might have been a body-man (there were several knives at his chale), and three in silk, though the rajah – if it were indeed he – more richly brocaded.

  At fifty yards, Hervey felt almost certain. ‘A year ago, and not long in his company, but I would say it was.’

  ‘He’ll not speak to you till I’m certain,’ said Neale sharply.

  ‘How do you propose to be?’

  ‘I’ll know, General. I’ll know.’

  He went forward to stay their advance – or to greet them, as perhaps it seemed to them, and for all the world as if he were on parade at Bangalore. His orderly had shone his boots and got out his dress crossbelt and kurta – green, ‘like a footman’, against a background of red.

  But to a Coorg – to any ‘Hindoo’ – while red was revered for its purity, green was the colour of singular significance. Om, the Sun, drove across the sky each day in a chariot drawn by a green horse with seven heads, preceded by Aruna – Dawn. Neale, his youth concealed beneath his braided forage cap (like those worn by British officers), was thereby to all save perhaps the rajah, who might indeed recollect his visitor of a year before, the most important of the assemblage that awaited them – the English general who sent the ultimatum, the insult, and to whom they must all now submit.

  Hervey followed as close as seemed dignified, keen to hear the exchange, whether he understood it or not.

  The rajah made a grand if obviously uneasy show of greeting. Hervey knew it was he – the round face, the sallow skin, the large dark eyes yet soft features – features indeed that betrayed both depravity and terror.

  Neale bowed to acknowledge.

  Then—

  ‘Feringhee!’ cried the body-man, pistol out from nowhere.

  The ball struck like David’s stone.

  Neale tumbled back.

  Hervey leapt, sword drawn, thrusting vengefully.

  The man was dead before he fell.

  Then as quickly again he lunged at the rajah, sabre lofting for Cut Two – Upper Left to Lower Right – but Acton’s blade stayed it as the terrified prince fell to his knees.

  The dragoons surged forward, trampling the women and the silks.

  Colonel Fraser ran to them, sword in hand. ‘Hervey!’

  XXV

  A Time to Mourn

  Later

  … And, my dearest wife, the rest has been most dreadful melancholy. My dragoons, who had all seen Neale’s murder – for murder it was – would have hanged the rajah from a gibbet with their own hands. Except that it had not been by his hand, nor could it conceivably have been by his design or desire, for he is a man by all accounts fearful of death, and death would surely have followed, and indeed did almost follow but for the address of my covering serjeant (Acton), who has thereby preserved me from a fate that might have been worse than any injury …

  ST ALBAN HAD quietly taken Neale’s place. In the afternoon, to Hervey’s relief, Armstrong appeared and soon afterwards Major Garratt and many of the communicating troop. Hervey struggled hard to keep up the mask of command as the field force now closed on Madkerry from all directions. He greeted them with a hale salute and a congratulatory word or two, but the returns shocked him: fourteen King’s officers killed or wounded, 139 rank and file; two native officers and 144 rank and file. It was nothing, perhaps, compared with a battle in Spain, no matter that the forces there had been far larger; and certainly not with that great battle that ended the ‘never-ending war’; but a butcher’s bill – a wretched term, but one they all spoke grimly of – was not paid without pain.

  Native rank and file: somehow the words were more dismissive even than those the duke had famously used of his own men – ‘the scum of the earth’. Anonymous words, too; yet they were men known well enough in their villages. He would not differentiate in his despatch to Fort St George (and yet he knew that at some point he would have to, for the book-keepers would have to know). Two hundred and ninety-nine, and with Neale, three hundred – a most convenient figure, for somehow it sounded less, being shorter, than ‘two hundred and ninety-nine’. He would have to include the names of the officers, of course, and one of the names was Jenkinson – whose greatest friend, Cornet Agar, had also perished under his command, in the Levant.

  Nothing but a battle lost could be half so melancholy as a battle won. The duke had said it, and now he himself might, for it was his battle won – his entirely.

  He rode to Bangalore a week later in much despondency still (though he trusted he concealed it), turning over in his mind the letters he’d write to Neale’s and Jenkinson’s people, as well as to those whose sons or husbands were not directly under his command but on whose conduct his laurels had depended. He had handed command of the little force of occupation – a native battalion, a King’s company and three guns – to Colonel Fraser as soon as he thought able, which in any case was not until the proper obsequies were carried out. The priest at Madkerry had come at once on hearing of the feringhee who’d been shot, and although finding him quite lifeless, had without any concern as to creed pronounced him in periculo mortis and anointed him with holy oil: ‘Per istam sanctam Unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid …’fn1

  And then in the days that followed, as practicably as could be had, the bodies of those feringhees who had been killed outside Madkerry were brought to his church, and he conducted the burial service for each or severally. So Neale and Jenkinson had at least a proper committal, and a final resting place in hallowed ground, which Hervey thought also must be comfort to their families. Poor Mill of the Fifty-fifth, however, would remain in his lonely forest grave. His officers had, they said, buried him as he would have wished – with those he had commanded – though they vowed to raise a memorial in Madras.

  On the last night, Fr Rodrigues had dined with as many of the officers as could assemble before they began the march back to their regular stations, and Hervey had presented him with a goodly sum for the repair and beautification of his church. It mattered not that he was a priest of Rome; had he been a Baptist they’d not have minded, for all a man wished for was that someone of religion would read the words over him if he were to fall. But if Fr Rodrigues had made no converts, said Hervey later, he’d done much to mitigate the Englishman’s natural distaste for the odour of popery. For himself, he’d have appointed him the regiment’s chaplain there and then, and brought him back to Madras. Except that Fr Rodrigues would never have consented to leave his little flock. That was the trouble with holy men.

  XXVI

  A Time To …

  Madras, 6 May

  IT WAS THE custom on St George’s Day to have a great tamasha for all ranks – in England they called it a levee – to mark the raising of the regiment in 1759, the Annus Mirabilis, the year of victories against the French; but as they’d not all returned by the 23rd, the celebration was postponed for a fortnight. It would serve also to celebrate the victory at Coorg. They’d honoured the dead, and now it was time to honour the living.

  For victory it most certainly was, as the laurels were already promising. On arriving home, or rather, on reporting to Fort St George, Hervey had found not just the commander-in-chief but Somervile, and when General O’Callaghan presented him with the ribbon of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath sent by London for his ‘services in the late United Kingdom of the Netherlands’, Somervile had pronounced himself certain that this signified also approval of his services in Bristol: ‘Depend upon it, sir: the prime minister would no more consent to such an honour otherwise, than he would pin a medal on a Frenchman’, adding that when Earl Grey heard of his actions at Coorg, ‘He’s sure to put a “K” before i
t.’

  He’d certainly left Fort St George in a happier spirit. We do but row, we’re steer’d by Fate, / Which in success oft disinherits, / For spurious causes, noblest merits. And thus it seemed; he was indeed a ‘lucky general’. He was, though, surprised to discover just how much gold Somervile had secretly dispensed – to the deewah and her people, and thence to all manner of men at Coorg, not least to Chinnah Buswa and Konandera Apoo; and even, in the promissory letter that he himself had carried, to the rajah himself. ‘War in India is made with gold and bullock carts.’ In truth, it had been the same in the war with France: ‘the cavalry of St George’ – the gold sovereigns stamped with the very image of England – had done as much to hasten Bonaparte’s end as the cavalry of the Duke of Wellington. But no matter; it was his good fortune – his luck – to serve one such as Somervile, without whom his victory could not have been so efficient. It was not money that would be talked of in the clubs in London, and the places that power resided, but his victory in the field. Generalcy would be his. He was now certain of it.

  But for now, he would be glad to relinquish the temporary rank and return to command of the Sixth, with all its rewards and vexations. There were men whose services must be written up and commended (Owthwaite being just one; he would restore his stripes tomorrow) but, first, there was the tamasha, and the church parade and the games, the outward and visible signs of the inward and spiritual grace that was the discipline and morale of a King’s regiment. A regiment was, he’d said more than once to St Alban – as Burke himself had said of ‘Society’ – a contract, a partnership, ‘not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born’. What else, indeed, was the point of exalting the founding day and the battle honours emblazoned on the guidons?

  So he’d gone thence to the regimental lines, like the leopard to mark its territory. There he’d found things exactly as he’d left them – better, indeed, for the new white paint – for in his absence Lieutenant (Quartermaster) Collins, whom he’d known as a corporal, serjeant and troop serjeant-major, had carried on ‘in the best traditions’.

  Armstrong was there, too, already harrying all and sundry in the time-honoured fashion, as if to say ‘The rear party’s stood down; it’s the regiment now’.

  ‘Coffee, Colonel-sahib?’

  Hervey brightened the more. ‘Sammy, mikka nanri’ (thank you); ‘Nalamaa?’

  The little Tamul beamed as he always did. No one could understand why he smiled so readily, for he’d no family and slept in a lean-to at the quartermaster’s. ‘I very good, Colonel-sahib; thank you, Colonel-sahib.’

  Sammy swept the floors, ran errands, made tea and coffee. The quartermaster gave him a few rupees from time to time, to buy a little rice. The dragoons called him all the names under the sun – and then gave him a few annas of their own, for a little old Tamul who smiled when he’d nothing but their company was comfort in a hard world. One day, no doubt, they’d find him dead, with a smile on his face, and they’d give him a ‘regimental’ funeral, for as far as they were concerned Sammy was on the strength.

  He came back at once with coffee in a silver pot. How he kept it hot, yet tasting fresh, was always a wonder to the orderly room. ‘Is anything more, Colonel-sahib?’

  Hervey shook his head, still reading over the first of his letters – to Lord Liverpool. The official notice of the death of his adoptive son was already at sea.

  ‘Colonel-sahib, permissy speak?’

  Hervey smiled. ‘Of course, Sammy: permissy speak.’

  ‘Colonel-sahib: Mr Jenkinson-sahib – I sorry for him. I like say he very fine gentiman.’

  Hervey swallowed hard. ‘Yes, a very fine gentleman.’

  ‘I dismiss now, Colonel-sahib?’

  Hervey smiled again and picked up his pen. ‘Yes, Sammy; you may dismiss. And … thank you for speaking of Mr Jenkinson. I write his father. I write you say he was fine gentleman.’

  Sammy, smiling ever more broadly, saluted.

  When he was gone, Hervey rewrote a page of the letter, adding with the assurance of literal truth, ‘He was held in the utmost regard, by even the lowest native bearer.’

  A man could not wish to read better of a son than that.

  And now he must add a little more to that to the Rector of Llanfihangel.

  ‘Colonel, might I intrude?’

  Hervey looked up.

  ‘Oh, I beg pardon. I should have seen, you are writing.’ St Alban imagined he knew to whom.

  ‘Is it a matter for the moment?’

  ‘No, Colonel, it was just that … No, there is no pressing need.’

  ‘Then come to Arcot House at seven. The hock should be tolerably warm by then.’

  St Alban was not unused to Hervey’s humour, though he was not always certain of it. ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘Is all well for the morrow?’

  ‘It is.’

  He nodded and took up his pen again. ‘Half an hour more, Edward, and then I’ll ride for Arcot House.’

  And tomorrow he’d write to Messrs Greenwood, Cox and Hammersley to have them send out Edward Pearce somehow.

  He got to Arcot House a little after two, the hour when all but the chowkidar had leave to take their ease, but the household were expecting him.

  Serjeant Stray, never given to great ceremony, however, confined himself to ‘All present and correct, Colonel, and I’m sorry about Mr Jenkinson – and Captain Neale.’

  Hervey thanked him. ‘Mrs Hervey, the children – all are well?’

  ‘They are, Colonel. Right as ninepence.’

  He’d reckoned that word would have reached him otherwise, but India was a place of sudden events and imperfect communications.

  ‘Have you eaten, Colonel?’

  He was peculiarly glad to be returned, but he wasn’t hungry. ‘Lemonade, I think, Sar’nt Stray. As cold as may be.’

  ‘Very good, Colonel. And I’ve placed all t’letters for you on your desk.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘And all has been well here?’

  ‘They’ve been fine, Colonel. Not a snake or a jogee’s come near,’ he said, with the old twinkle. ‘Mrs Hervey’s ridden out a lot – and Annie. Oh, Miss Gildea, I ought to say,’ (Hervey smiled) ‘with Miss Allegra on a leading rein.’

  ‘Whose leading rein, Mrs Hervey’s or Annie’s?’

  ‘Mrs Hervey, Colonel, with one o’ t’RM’s men, and a syce. But Annie’s seat’s coming along nice as well.’

  ‘Capital.’

  ‘And there’ve been ladies’ gatherings an’ what ’ave you. There were an ’Indoo princess at one of ’em. An’ a bishop.’

  ‘Admirable … I take it Mrs Hervey’s resting now?’

  ‘She is, Colonel. Johnson said you’d not be back for a couple of hours more.’

  ‘That’s the price of having so efficient a quartermaster. By the bye, the adjutant will come at seven, and also the major. And now, if you please, I’ll sit outside and look over my letters. A bath in half an hour?’

  ‘Colonel.’

  He went to the south-facing verandah (there were three), looked through his letters for familiar hands, and at once opened two. They told him the same, and so doubled his pleasure: Georgiana would by now be taking passage in the company of a major and his wife bound for Madras. But as he read Elizabeth’s letter he realized there was no mention of a governess. How was he supposed to manage, therefore?

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t—’

  He rose without thinking – a female voice. ‘There’s no need of regret, Annie. I was just taking my ease. You are well?’

  The question was mere formality: she looked in the best of health.

  ‘Very well, thank you, sir. And you? We have heard much of what the regiment has done.’

  Her voice had changed. It was more measured. She’d never spoken with a pronounced accent, but it could now pass for a drawing room – which, he supposed, was only to be expected in her new pos
ition. Her appearance had always been pleasing, but in her cotton white and her broad-brimmed hat, there was now no telling her from a lady.

  He smiled. ‘The regiment – such as was of it – did very well, yes. But you’ll have heard, perhaps, that Captain Neale and Mr Jenkinson are dead.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I did, sir, yes. How dreadful it will go with their families.’

  ‘Just so. How is Miss Allegra?’

  She smiled warmly. ‘She is very well indeed. And in such spirit.’

  ‘Serjeant Stray informs me that there’ve been no more untoward visitors since the cobra.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to tell you that Miss Georgiana will join us before the year is out. Perhaps even before the monsoon breaks.’

  Annie brightened the more. She’d taken to Georgiana at once when she’d visited Heston. ‘I look forward very much to seeing Miss Georgiana, sir. And so, I’m sure, will Miss Allegra.’

  He nodded, and with the satisfaction of recognizing that he need not fear at all for Georgiana’s care. Annie had not the background of a regular governess, but she had a true character, which in the end, he’d always maintained, trumped breeding. But he’d not speak of it now. He’d no wish to make her feel obliged just because he was returned from the field.

  ‘Have you heard aught of your brother?’

  He liked to bathe hot, even in the warmest weather. It seemed to help wash away all that had gone before. The air was still, now, but the windows – the louvred doors – were full open, and so he’d refused the punkah. He lay thinking of what had passed and what might come, but random thoughts, and to no particular purpose. A hoopoe began its call from below the window. Of all the birds, it was to him the most peaceful, and he closed his eyes to give thanks to his Maker for abundant blessings.

  When he’d towelled himself dry and sat a while to savour a little more the joy of this place, he put on loose whites and brushed his hair. He thought perhaps he should send for the nai, for it was overlong, but there’d be time tomorrow before parade.