The Nizam's Daughters

by Mallinson, Allan

  Templer gave the orders at once to Subedar Thangraj. He in turn got the sepoys and others who had gathered on the bank to work with their bare hands, and in half an hour they had made the cutting, and water began to flow towards the fussunded elephant. At first it looked as though all that would happen was the merciful drowning of the beast, now utterly exhausted and seemingly resigned to its fate, but after a few more minutes the quicksand started to loosen. The attendants put ropes around the animal’s quarters and the combined strength of fifty men and two elephants now braced for a final effort. The water was fast rising, and the ropes might not bear the strain. But at the signal, all pulled as if their own lives depended on it – and out he came, like a cork from a bottle.

  The beast was done for. He had been stuck fast for a full five hours and every rib showed. He stood, swaying, as if he might collapse at any moment. ‘Brandy, Subedar sahib: fetch him some brandy,’ said Hervey.

  Subedar Thangraj found a bottle from the bat-horse packs and, mixed with water in a bucket, the brandy was proffered to the exhausted elephant by his mahout. And it seemed not without some effect, for although he continued to sway on his feet, he began to step from side to side, showing no sign of wanting to lie down. The attendants were overjoyed, and began an incoherent babbling which nevertheless conveyed appreciation of the sahibs’ ingenuity. And then suddenly there was excited pointing and more jabbering: ‘Salutri, sahib, salutri!’ shouted the one with some Urdu.

  Salutri? Hervey was baffled: where in all of Hindoostan were they to find a veterinarian? He tried to tell them this, but they pointed more insistently: ‘Salutri, salutri!’ Hervey turned to look – astounded.

  ‘Matthew Hervey, I never supposed for a moment that you would take my advice,’ said Selden as he rode up, followed by a half-dozen lancers, saffron pennants fluttering – the distinguishing colour of the princely state of Chintal.

  The last time Hervey had heard that voice was in Dover the best part of two years before. Hatless, he held his arm out to the side and made the smallest bow of his head, smiling with incredulity as he did so: ‘Mr Selden, by what providence is it that we should meet thus?’

  The salutri laughed. ‘Doubtless you would say it was the will of God, but I should not wish to debate divinity again with you – at least, not here. It is a great world into which we are born, but a small one in which we choose to live. Who are your friends?’

  ‘Oh, forgive me,’ said Hervey, conscious now of Templer and Locke standing silent next to him. ‘Let me present Mr Locke, lieutenant of Marines in His Majesty’s Ship Nisus, and Cornet Templer of the Madras Light Cavalry.’ Both made bows. ‘Gentlemen,’ continued Hervey, turning to them, ‘may I present Mr Selden, lately veterinary surgeon to the 6th Light Dragoons.’

  Selden, now dismounted, held out his hand to each. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, smiling the while, ‘you are standing on the left bank of the Sukri. May I therefore welcome you on behalf of the Rajah of Chintal to his domain.’

  They expressed themselves grateful but explained that the crossing was unintentional. One of the mahouts began to talk rapidly in his own tongue, and Selden quizzed him with considerable fluency. He turned to Hervey again. ‘It appears, too, that I must thank you on the rajah’s behalf for rescuing one of his favourite hunting elephants. The rajah is a great shikari: we have been in these parts for a week’s sport and these elephants were bathing before their return to our hunting camp. Come, let me offer you some refreshment. Our camp is but a mile away, and we don’t strike until tomorrow, though the rajah has returned to Chintalpore, unfortunately – the Nizam of Haidarabad visits and there’s much to attend to.’

  Here was fortune indeed. He was met with Selden, an object of his mission to India, and a month, surely, before he might be able to do so through the offices of Calcutta. And the nizam himself was about to pay a visit to Chintalpore. Hervey was turning over the possibilities in his mind even as he accepted Selden’s invitation.

  Templer, however, was concerned for the propriety – and the legality – of Company troops entering the rajah’s domain, even with an invitation.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Hervey concluded, with as indifferent an air as he could manage, ‘it seems that Mr Templer shall have to return directly to Guntoor. However, Mr Locke and I accept with the greatest pleasure!’

  VII

  FALSE CIVILIZATION

  Chintal, princely state

  The Rajah of Chintal’s hunting camp lay at the forest edge, where great mathi and tadasalu trees provided shade over the best part of three acres of mown grass. There were a dozen large tents, one bigger by half than the others, with saffron panels and streamers, evidently the rajah’s former quarters. In the middle of the camp was the maidan, on which several Arab ponies were being schooled by bare-legged riders. Xenophon would have approved, smiled Hervey, for they rode without saddle too, the sweat of the ponies’ flanks giving the necessary adhesion.

  ‘Come: you will feel the need of a bath,’ said Selden, as their horses were led away; and he called after one of the syces, in a tongue Hervey did not recognize, to fill two tubs for the sahibs.

  Hervey was glad of the offer, and Locke too, for the quicksand had a rankness that had travelled with them to the camp. And for a half-hour they each luxuriated in leaden baths of warm, perfumed spring water brought by relays from a huge vat heated by a charcoal fire. And to slake their thirsts a khitmagar brought silver cups of cold beer.

  ‘Upon my word,’ exclaimed Locke after his first, long, draught, ‘this is uncommonly good ale. This Chintal nabob has a damned fine brewer. And so cool it is too, as if it has been in a cellar. A man might be tolerably content in these parts!’

  It was a half-hour of indulgence. And all the more pleasurable for its being well earned.

  ‘Did you find the arrangements to your satisfaction, gentlemen?’ enquired Selden as they joined him outside his tent.

  They had. Towels, brushes and clean shirts from the rajah’s quarters, and breeches from the packs carried by the bat-horses, had made new men of them.

  ‘May I offer you more ale, or perhaps you would prefer wine?’

  Both preferred the cold hops.

  ‘An uncommonly good brew,’ said Locke again, emptying his cup in one motion, which a khitmagar refilled at once from a silver pitcher.

  ‘Yes,’ said Selden, with some satisfaction, ‘I too am fond of Burton ale.’

  Locke was intrigued. ‘You do not mean that which we call Burton ale, do you?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ Selden assured him. ‘The rajah is especially favoured of it. Twice yearly it is shipped from Madras at sixty rupees a dozen.’

  They made noises of appreciation, though at such a price Locke was not now so assured that a man might be advantageously set up here without a small fortune.

  The khansamah led them to the dinner table, which stood under the double shade of both a giant mathi and a saffron canopy. The table was so solid that even when Locke half-stumbled against it as they sat nothing was put awry. Had they been able to see beneath the crimson tablecloth, richly decorated as it was with images of the chase worked in semi-precious stones, they would have been astonished that anything so massive as this teak board, its legs carved voluptuously, might be brought to the jungle’s edge. The plates and flatware – everything, it seemed – were gold, and by this sumptuousness Hervey was left in no doubt as to the rajah’s rank and wealth, though he could not, with any certainty, discern thereby his character. He had seen like displays of nobility and wealth at Longleat and Lismore, albeit more restrained. His preference was still for a white tablecloth and silver; though how long might a man be in India, he wondered, before it was for brocades and gold?

  Henry Locke, evidently, was occupied by no such thoughts, setting about the fare without seeming much to notice the richness of the plate on which it was served. His thirst was already proving prodigious, and one khitmagar was engaged almost entirely in replenishing his cup. ‘How d’ye mana
ge to chill it so thoroughly in this infernal heat?’ he asked. ‘You cannot stand it in the river alone. That wouldn’t cool it thus.’

  ‘Ice,’ replied Selden in a matter-of-fact way. ‘The rajah has ice houses in Chintal and blocks of it are brought down here each night.’

  Hervey was minded of the ice cart in Chelsea, and how his arresting officer’s reserve had begun to thaw, with the ice, on that hot July morning. What an extraordinary change in his fortunes that day had seen. And what extraordinary circumstances had brought him since to this table at the edge of the jungle on the far side of the world. He could not help his thoughts wandering back to the vicarage garden in Wiltshire, where his father might now be pottering – perhaps to see the first snowdrops. His mother, his sister, and quite probably Mrs Strange too – all would be at some good work or other. And, of course, Henrietta. He could not suppose with any exactness what she might be doing, nor where she might be. London was not improbable at this time of year. Bath, too, perhaps – there were fashionable assemblies there throughout the winter. She might be at Chatsworth – the new duke was the staunchest of her friends. Indeed, she might be at any of two dozen great houses in England, for such was her beauty and wit that her company was constantly sought.

  Selden recalled him to the forest’s edge. ‘How do you find your fish, Hervey? I’ll warrant you’ve not tasted its like before.’

  ‘No, I think not,’ he replied, much pleased with the fullness of its taste.

  ‘It is mackerel, brought fresh from Rajahmundry.’

  ‘Mackerel?’ said Hervey, curious.

  ‘Yes, the rajah is inordinately fond of them. And they’re so much fatter than those you will find in England. The warmer waters make them lazier.’

  ‘And the special taste they have?’

  ‘One of the rajah’s cooks is from Bombay. He has a clever way with a marinade – coriander and other spices. I tell you, the rajah’s table is second to none.’

  He was becoming happily accustomed to good tables, declared Hervey.

  But the most fulsome praise was reserved for what followed. ‘Pig!’ exclaimed Selden, as two khitmagars advanced with the spitted bulk of his delight carried high on their shoulders. ‘There is no better sport than spearing pig, Hervey, and the more so because he tastes so fine. Shooting tiger is nothing to hog-hunting!’

  Great slices of meat were hacked from the boar’s loins, and soon both Locke and Hervey were confessing that they had never had such choice game. The meat was fine-grained, not at all coarse – darker, more promising than pork, but not offensively strong.

  ‘You had better have some claret with it to appreciate its fullness,’ said Selden, beckoning to a khitmagar holding a magnificently chased ewer. ‘I could eat pig every day. Have some of this too,’ he continued, nodding as another khitmagar proffered a bowl of preserve. ‘Sev, aroo, aur kubani ki.’

  ‘Apple . . .’ began Hervey, racking his brains for the other words.

  ‘Apple, peach and apricot – chatnee. And some of this – there’s nothing more sensuous than dhal!’ A tall, loose-limbed youth, clean-shaven, with effeminate features, dabbed at the little beads of sweat on Selden’s forehead, smiling confidentially as he did so. Selden returned the smile before waving him away with a playful gesture.

  Hervey affected not to notice.

  ‘He is the most amusing boy,’ said Selden, ‘a Bengali I engaged in Calcutta when I came back here last year. A trustworthy bearer is a prize, Hervey.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the latter, taking another slice of pig. ‘You will recall that I found it thus with grooms. With me still is the very same dragoon from that last winter in Spain.’

  Selden nodded approvingly. ‘Tell me of this battle – Waterloo. Not how went it, for I was never much occupied by fighting – but how the regiment fared.’

  Hervey recounted the tally of officers, and the men whom Selden might recall.

  The veterinarian heard it in silence, here and there shaking his head at a name. But Joseph Edmonds’s brought more. ‘The major was a humane man. He treated me with not a little kindness.’

  Hervey supposed he must be referring to events on campaign, and latterly to his manner of leaving the regiment in Cork. ‘I owe Major Edmonds everything, perhaps, too,’ he confided; ‘no man I ever met combined such zeal for perfection in his profession with such benevolence towards an individual.’

  ‘Indeed?’ smiled Selden with an irony that was lost on his visitor. He had always regarded Hervey as having excess of both.

  By the time coffee was brought by the khansamah, Henry Locke had slid deep into his chair and a profound sleep. He made little noise, however (beyond the occasional snuffle), so that Hervey and Selden were able to continue without distraction. ‘Well,’ said the latter, with a sudden and curious insistence, ‘you have not spoken one word of your purpose in coming to India. I don’t suppose it was anything I said in Toulouse when I recommended this course to you? And I don’t suppose you have voluntarily quit your precious dragoons.’

  Hervey smiled. ‘No, I have not left the regiment. I am with the Duke of Wellington’s staff. I am here to study the employment of the lance with a view to its being taken into service in our cavalry.’

  Selden looked puzzled. ‘The duke’s staff, you say; in what capacity?’

  ‘I am aide-de-camp.’

  He now looked positively wary. ‘So you are Captain Hervey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he continued, his brow furrowed, ‘but when last we met you had not two sovereigns to spare, and there was some general or other after your hide. This is a remarkable change of fortune, is it not?’

  Hervey smiled again. ‘I have been fortunate, yes. In the wake of the battle there were many positions to be filled.’

  Selden looked sceptical. ‘Well, whatever your business in India,’ and he seemed not yet inclined to believe that it was entirely stated, though he would ordinarily have staked his last rupee on Hervey’s candour, ‘I am very glad to see you again. You will know of the circumstances of my leaving the Sixth in Cork. It’s better that we have it out.’

  Hervey made some protest, not without embarrassment, but Selden bade him stop.

  ‘I freely admit that my tastes have been seduced by years in the tropics,’ he continued, ‘and it’s as well that I am returned here where they cause less offence – indeed, go entirely unremarked.’

  ‘And better for your health?’ asked Hervey, grasping the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘That I do not know, but I don’t imagine that I should have enjoyed many winters living beneath a fountain – which is what it seemed to me that Cork was.’

  ‘How did you come to this employment?’

  ‘By letters of introduction from the Company in Calcutta. I had once been their buying agent there.’

  ‘And the rajah wished to have a veterinarian?’

  ‘Someone to buy horses – that, yes, but more: I am become his adviser in other, general matters. He has a most efficient dewan – minister, that is – and a sound treasury. Which is as well, for he has much wealth, but he has made no treaty with the Company and there is no resident, therefore.’

  It was now Hervey’s turn to look puzzled. ‘But if he is so afeard of the nizam, as I hear tell, why does he not conclude such a treaty with the Company?’

  ‘He values his own sovereignty, of course, and there is always a fear among the princes that a resident is but a covert viceroy. But principally he fears that the very act of approaching the Company would provoke the nizam into invading Chintal. And since we know that Haidarabad is presently at the mercy of the nizam’s lunatic sons, I shouldn’t wonder but that he is right.’

  Hervey paused thoughtfully before making what seemed the obvious retort. ‘But the rajah could surely conclude his treaty in secret, and then it would be for the Company to protect Chintal.’

  Selden smiled – laughed, almost. ‘My dear Hervey, you have a very great deal to learn
about India. War is made here with bullocks, money and spies. The rajah would not even be able to think of such a treaty without the nizam’s hearing of it. Several of the rajah’s own khitmagars are in the pay of the nizam!’

  ‘Surely if you know that, then—’

  ‘Hervey, it is better that we know who the spies are than that we dismiss them and begin again.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ he conceded. And then he frowned, as if something troubled him. ‘Bullocks, money and spies, you say. What about guns?’

  ‘Battle is made with guns. You of all people know that!’

  They lit cigars, yet not even the smoke made Locke stir. ‘Not, I fancy, an officer of your fastidiousness,’ suggested Selden, contemplating his repose.

  ‘There are two suppositions in your saying so, and I am not inclined to remark on either,’ replied Hervey with a smile. ‘He is a most gallant and faithful officer.’

  ‘As you please,’ conceded Selden.

  ‘One more thing, however: what manner of forces does the rajah possess?’

  ‘About five thousand of infantry and two risallahs of cavalry – five hundred each.’

  ‘And guns?’

  ‘A few siege pieces hardly worth the name; and each risallah will have a brace of gallopers. The Company has always been anxious to see as few cannon as possible in native hands.’

  ‘I have heard that a galloper gun deployed with some address might have considerable effect here, though – the mutiny at Vellore? I was sorry on more than one occasion in Spain for their passing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded Selden, ‘but the nizam has copious artillery, including a battery of siege pieces that seem able to go where even our own horse-gunners would have difficulty. They blew apart the rajah’s forts on the Godavari river a decade ago when he tried to levy tolls on Haidarabad trafficking. The nizam’s beautiful daughters, they are called.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard. I should very much like to make their acquaintance, but as a friend of course,’ laughed Hervey.