Hervey agreed somewhat ruefully. ‘How long shall this ship take to reach England?’
Emma Lucie turned to her brother, who was still engrossed in contemplation of Somervile’s champion Kehilans. ‘How long shall our letters take home, Philip?’
‘It is one of our fast pinnaces with despatches for Leadenhall Street: two months.’
‘Only two months? Nisus took the best part of—’
‘The pinnace goes to Egypt,’ explained Lucie, ‘and then the despatches are taken overland and by the Mediterranean: two months, at most, this time of year. That is the way your affianced’s express came.’
VI
LICENCE TO PLUNDER
Guntoor, 23 February – two weeks later
No pleasanter beginning to the month of purification could Hervey remember. Candlemas, which had come as Nisus had only lately recrossed the Equator, had been so warm that he could scarcely comprehend that this same day in Horningsham might be chill enough to freeze his father’s breath as he said the offices in church, and numb his fingers so much that turning each page of the prayer book became a labour. The nights were a little cold in Guntoor, perhaps, but each morning came as the one before, and the days followed the same course – a warming which progressed precisely by the clock, and with it the lives of the people who depended so much on its regularity. ‘Brighton’, the collector had called Madras, and Hervey might have believed it when he attended morning prayer in St Mary’s church the following day. But now he was seeing India beyond the Company pale. The strangeness of its gods, its beliefs and superstitions, the dangers which attended routine things, the revolting deformities, the sensual possibilities in the dirtiest of corners – it was a heady, elemental place as alien and fearful as the pagan lands of the Old Testament. But it was beginning its work with him as surely as it had with the collector and thousands before him, for none but the most desiccated could be untouched by the promise of so much. Not that Guntoor was Babylon, or even Gaza.
Hervey, Emma Lucie and Henry Locke (to whom Peto had seemed relieved to grant arrears of furlough) had spent a week in the collector’s company, a week equally pleasing to each, for Mr Eyre Somervile was generous, cultivated and sporting to an uncommon degree. Dinner had just finished, Emma Lucie had retired to her quarters, and Locke had repaired once again to the bazaar, whose unselfconscious delights had instantly captivated him. Hervey had accepted the collector’s invitation to a final brandy and seltzer, and they were sitting in the comfortable leather armchairs of his drawing room, wondering which of two brightly spotted geckoes would reach the ceiling first. ‘They are singularly lazy beggars,’ opined Somervile after a while. ‘The house snake will have them by morning if they don’t look sharp.’
‘House snake?’ said Hervey, suddenly alarmed.
‘House snakes, I should say, for there are two,’ replied the collector casually.
‘Oh! I am very unpartial to snakes,’ confessed Hervey, lifting his feet and looking all about him. ‘What kind are they?’
‘One is a wolf snake, the other a cat – both female, I reckon. And there is a big male rat snake which comes in from the garden from time to time.’
Hervey was now certain he had been living within an ace of death these past seven days. ‘Are they very venomous?’ he asked, shuddering.
‘Venomous?’ said the collector, incredulously – but thoroughly warmed to his teasing. ‘Not in the least, though a rat snake killed one of the writers at Fort George last year!’
‘How so then?’ asked Hervey, quite horrified.
‘It looks somewhat like the cobra, but it has a more pointed head – and bigger eyes. And it doesn’t spread a hood, of course. But to a writer not long from England it can look like a cobra – or several if you’ve taken too much whiskey. As it seems had Mr Fotheringham when he fell headlong down the residency steps in his fright.’
Hervey frowned at Somervile’s wry smile, recovering his composure somewhat.
The smaller of the geckoes had finally reached the top of the wall when one of the collector’s babus entered with a despatch. ‘Read it for me, if you will, Mohan: I have left my eyeglass in my dressing room.’
The babu put on his own spectacles, and lifted the paper to the light of a wall sconce. ‘Sahib, it is from the deputy collector in Tiruvoor subdistrict. He writes: “A body of Pindarees, by estimates one thousand strong, entered the Circars three days ago from Nagpore and have laid waste villages along the Tiruvoor. There is much destruction of property and life, and the horde proceeds unchecked.” ’
The collector’s donnish affability vanished in an instant. He sprang up, seized the despatch from the babu, held it up close to the oil lamp on his desk and scanned its details with increasing dismay. ‘I knew it! I knew it! I’ve been warning for months but Fort George didn’t wish to hear!’
Hervey, on his feet now too, pressed him for details.
‘There are twenty villages along the Tiruvoor, probably ten thousand souls at the mercy of these devils. And there’s not a standing patrol in miles!’ He was railing so loud his bearer and khansamah came running.
‘What’s to be done?’ asked Hervey, having no notion of the proximity of the villages, and therefore of the predators.
‘What men are there in the garrison at present?’ said Somervile to the babu.
‘At present, sahib, there are being only one troop of cavalry. Infantry will not be returning inside of one week.’ His head rocked from side to side in the manner of babus offering news that might be disagreeable.
‘Very well then, be so good as to have it parade here at five tomorrow morning ready to take to the field. I shall ride with them myself: I wish to see at first hand the scale of these depredations.’
The babu took off his spectacles, made namaste and scurried from the room. Later he would tell his wife he had seen the collector in a rage, and she would not believe him, for the Collector of Guntoor had never been known to raise his voice. The meanest bondsman who had ever heard of his magistracy, or of his administration of land revenues, knew him to be of the purest fire and the most gentle, generous heart, and the most fastidious Brahman knew him to be of an intellect and sensibility no less remarkable.
And yet the collector’s gorge was now so risen that he could barely contain himself. He sank into his chair and struck the table with his fist, sending coffee cups spilling from their tray. ‘I dearly wish I could believe in your god, Captain Hervey, so that I might be assured that the fiends who inflicted such evils on their fellow humans would savour the same!’
Hervey poured a large glass of brandy and seltzer for him. ‘Do you have any objections to my accompanying you? And Mr Locke would, I know, wish to come too. As long as we may return within the week, for Nisus will be off Guntoor then.’
‘No objection at all. I should be glad of it,’ said the collector, springing up again and searching the maps on his desk.
‘Locke will be the best of men in a fight,’ continued Hervey. ‘I’m glad his captain felt obliged to be so generous with leave.’
‘Yes,’ replied Somervile, having found the map he wanted. ‘Your Mr Locke is a good sort, though I regret there’ll be no need of his sword arm, for there won’t be a single Pindaree east of the Ghats by now.’ He sank down in his chair again and wiped a hand across his face. ‘I’ve been warning of it, I know; and yet I can hardly bring myself to believe it can have happened – that a native body has deliberately violated the territory of the Honourable East India Company, ravaged that which is under the Company’s protection’ (he took another large gulp of brandy), ‘plundered its villages, tortured and murdered native people under the dominion of the Company and, therefore, of His Majesty!’ He took out a large silk square and dabbed at his eyes.
Hervey tried to think of something that might help him regain his composure, but could not. ‘Somervile, I have not enquired before, since I formed the impression that it was Company business of a confidential nature,’ he tried, refilling bot
h glasses and fixing him with a look that demanded serious attention, ‘but I should be very much obliged if you would tell me all that there is of the Pindarees.’
The collector paused a moment before laying aside the map. ‘Very well, I shall tell you all. And, I might add, if your Duke of Wellington were here I have not the slightest doubt that this would never have happened, for the policies which the previous governor-general pursued were too yielding, and the present one, though more vigorous, has yet to make his mark.’
‘Though he has subdued the Ghoorka tribes, I understand?’
‘I fear he was driven to it. I doubt he had any real appetite.’
Hervey was reassured that his principal was held in high regard by one official of the Company at least. ‘The Pindarees, then: what is their peculiar menace?’
The collector sat in his armchair again. ‘From the beginning? The Pindarees are a body – several bodies – of irregular horse who serve without pay and who have licence to plunder wheresoever they can: chiefly south of the Nerbudda river, in the territories of the nizam and the Rajah of Berar and the peshwa.’ He dabbed at his brow again and loosened his collar. ‘They originated – as far as we may know – a century and a half ago in the Dekhin, in the service of the Mughal rulers, but as Mughal power declined they transferred their services to the Marathas – against whom your duke fought with signal success a dozen years ago. As Maratha power declined in turn, the Pindarees have become even less disciplined and predictable.’ He emptied his brandy and seltzer, peered at the motionless geckoes for what seemed an age, and then resumed as they began their descent of the wall. ‘They’ve separated into three clans, each led by the most odious of men. These chiefs rarely themselves lead a plundering foray; rather they appoint sirdars. That band which has penetrated hereabouts is led, it seems, by one Bikhu Sayed, who is known for his especial insolence and depravity. I fear we shall see and hear things that will make the strongest stomachs turn.’
Hervey was confident of his stomach, but the notion of lawlessness on a regimented scale was wholly alien to him. ‘How many are they?’
‘The estimates are varied, but the best formulations are probably those of the Bengal office, which put the number of horse at twenty-five thousand. That is the figure which their spies estimated to have assembled at the Dasahara festival five years ago – the most reliable intelligence in our possession, if a little dated.’
‘And all these may operate as one body, with effect?’ asked Hervey, incredulous, for he knew that no such body of European cavalry had manoeuvred to advantage during his service.
‘Again, so little is known,’ said the collector, frowning. ‘Captain Sydenham, from the Bengal office, has estimated that only some six or seven thousand may be counted truly effective cavalry.’ He shrugged. ‘But there is a saying here: “What cares the ass or the bullock whether his load be made of flowers?” It matters little to a ryot whether the cavalry that has ravaged him is counted effective or ineffective.’
‘No, of course,’ Hervey agreed, ‘but it matters more if some operation to extirpate the menace is being contemplated.’
The collector sighed and nodded. ‘Forgive me. Indeed it does. I am too distressed at the knowledge of what these demons have done. That and the certain knowledge that there will be no concerted campaign of extirpation.’
Hervey wished profoundly that he might reassure him on that point: the duke, for sure, would not sit idly by once he was appointed to Fort William. ‘What does this incursion portend in the wider sense?’
‘Hah!’ said the collector, getting up and pouring yet another glass. ‘That is the very question which should most be exercising the minds of those at Fort St George and Fort William – ay, and in Bombay Castle too. There must be some great concerted action on the part of the three presidencies, else we shall never be able to continue our business unmolested. More immediately, I fear for the peace hereabouts since the Rajah of Nagpore has evidently been unable to prevent Bikhu Sayed from traversing his lands, and this will put Chintal in a most perilous position – squeezed by the nizam to their south and west, and by the Pindarees to their north and east. It bodes ill for trade along the Godavari river if Chintal declines into chaos.’
Tempting though it was to question him directly on Chintal, Hervey held himself in check, though they sat talking for an hour before the collector thought fit to retire. Hervey penned a brief note for Henry Locke and hoped he would return before dawn. When he turned in, he lay for a full half-hour trying to think how Somervile’s estimate might affect his mission. But beyond the obvious conclusion that it could not make things easier, he was at a loss. Perhaps Bazzard in Calcutta would have a clearer picture, though he was inclined to think not, for Colonel Grant had seemed to suggest he would be little more than a facilitator, a clearing office. Was that why Selden was so useful as a point of contact in Chintal? Not for the first time he began to feel the want of that fuller exposition which Grant had said was not necessary.
There were just the remains of the night’s chill in the air as dawn came to Guntoor. The first rays of the sun were quick to pick out the whitened, single-storey residences of the civil lines, the verandahs, where sat the chowkidars, becoming for a time darker pools as a consequence. Smoke was already rising from stoves and ovens behind each residence as bearers prepared chota hazree – tea and poori, or chapatti perhaps. The collector’s household had risen earlier this morning, however, and after a fuller breakfast – eggs and cold beef – Somervile, Hervey and Locke were now gathered in the carriage drive at the front. Birds sang in every quarter – not as many as in Horningsham, but shriller, although a bulbul was giving out its melodious, liquid call from deep inside a leafy shrub. A pair of night herons flapped overhead, from the direction of the river, their distinctive ‘kwaark, kwaark’ more than ever importunate in the quiet of the dawn. Hervey breathed deep, in both senses, eager to begin.
A minute or so later and the sound of hooves on hard earth quickened him even more. Wiry little horses, country-breds, not Arabs, led by equally wiry syces, came up the carriage drive in a restive jog-trot. There had been some heat in Jessye’s leg after their ride yesterday and Hervey had told Johnson that she was to have box-rest for a day or so. These country-breds looked handy enough, however, and he had sufficient respect for the collector’s eye for horses to trust that he would have under him an honest gelding. As the three mounted, each with the help of as many syces – one holding the bridle, one on the offside pulling down the stirrup leather, and the third with palm on knee in lieu of a mounting block – there arrived from the cantonment the patrol that was to determine whether the Pindarees’ incursion was the precursor of another fierce predation, or whether it had been a single freebooting action. And as the Godavari river was to be the limit of their reconnaissance, they carried with them – or, rather, bullock carts would follow with – camp stores and provisions for a week’s essay.
Had the officer commanding the cavalry troop been attired according to the regulations, he would have looked more magnificent than Hervey himself on a full-dress parade, for the Madras Light Cavalry’s uniform was a French-blue hussar jacket, with silver lace across the chest, sky-blue overalls and a Greek helmet with a shoulder-length, white horsehair plume. But this morning, as most days, the officer (as his troopers) wore the same shako as Hervey had at Waterloo, but instead of a black oilskin cover it had one of buff cotton with a piece of cloth to shield the neck from the sun. The officer saluted the party from the civil lines eagerly with his sword – the straightpattern sabre, unlike Hervey’s. ‘Cornet Templer, sir,’ he said, smiling.
‘Yes, Mr Templer,’ replied the collector; ‘I am not likely to forget. I shall not wager my mare against yours quite so soon again, unless I find a more talented jockey than that jackanapes who calls himself your lieutenant! You should take her to Madras: she will win you a small fortune.’
Cornet Templer looked not much more than a boy. His tanned face was framed by curls
the colour of autumn corn, and it now seemed to be but one large smile. Hervey took to him at once, for his liveliness was infectious, his eagerness admirable. Just the sort of cornet he would have wanted for his own troop – a clean young Englishman. There was a deal of handshaking following the saluting. Lieutenant of Marines Henry Locke took to the cornet too, though, as his seat was less certain than once it might have been, it was not without some difficulty that he managed to press his mount to within handshaking distance. Cornet Templer looked him straight in the eye, seeming not to see any disfigurement. And that to Locke – more than Hervey or even Peto might have supposed – meant a very great deal.
There was one more introduction to effect. Cornet Templer turned his head towards his troop. ‘Subedar, sahib,’ he called, still smiling. A tall Madrasi, dressed almost identically to Templer, jogged up on his big gelding – an animal in better condition than Hervey had yet seen in the country. ‘Gentlemen, this is Subedar Thangraj. He will not permit us to get into too much trouble.’
Subedar Thangraj straightened his back still further, and saluted high, almost touching the crown of his shako. ‘Captain, sahib, it is an honour to meet with one who has fought at the great battle of Waterloo,’ he said in clear, confident English, looking directly, and with much solemnity, at Hervey.
‘Thank you, Subedar sahib,’ he replied formally, though astonished that these details should already be known to this native officer – and that the man should be so wholly confident of recognizing to whom the distinction applied. But he was puzzled by the rank. ‘Templer, you said “Subedar”; I understood that in the cavalry the rank is “Rissaldar”.’
‘In the armies of Bombay and Bengal, yes sir, but not in Madras.’
‘And is this so for the other ranks?’
‘It is. All our private men are sepoys, not sowars.’
‘How so?’ asked Hervey, vexed with himself for being unaware that there should be this difference.
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