‘Read on, if you please, Captain Hervey,’ said the rajah, sitting down by a window and gazing out into his gardens.
‘ “Thou sawest till that a stone was cut out without hands, which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay, and brake them to pieces. Then was the iron, the clay, the brass, the silver, and the gold, broken to pieces together, and became like the chaff of the summer threshing floors; and the wind carried them away, that no place was found for them: and the stone that smote the image became a great mountain, and filled the whole earth.” ’
The rajah remained silent for a moment. ‘And what is its meaning?’
Hervey paused a moment too. ‘Nebuchadnezzar was a great king. He is the head of gold, but the kingdoms that follow his shall be in turn weaker, until at last one – represented by the feet of clay – shall be shattered, and a greater one – ordained by God – shall take its place. It is a prophecy of the coming of the Hebrew state, sir.’
‘And what said the king to this?’ asked the rajah intently.
‘He revered Daniel thereafter, sir.’
‘Read it to me please, Captain Hervey. I wish to know exactly what is written.’
Hervey was growing uneasy, sensing now some purpose in the rajah which might run counter to his resolve over the jagirs. ‘ “Then the king made Daniel a great man, and gave him many great gifts, and made him ruler over the whole province of Babylon, and chief of the governors over all the wise men of Babylon.” ’
There was a long silence. At length the rajah sighed. ‘Captain Hervey, your father is a priest.’
Hervey confirmed, again, that it was so.
‘And it is evident that you have much learning in these matters, too.’
‘Sir, I cannot call it learning, only long exposure to scripture.’
The rajah nodded. ‘I wanted first to speak with you of the nizam, for his coming to Chintal is exercising me greatly. But now I am minded to ask you more of scripture. Captain Hervey, I tell you things that I scarce dare think. Our sacred faith is become mere superstition here in Chintal, a constant endeavour to propitiate so many gods that may do us mischief. And some gods do each other mischief so that we do not know, in appeasing one, whether we anger another.’
‘The Bible, sir, is not without its contradictions too.’ He felt reasonably sure this did not go beyond the bounds of orthodoxy.
‘Which is more than the nizam’s religion would admit to,’ said the rajah ruefully.
‘And yet he is tolerant of faiths other than his own, is he not?’ There were no rumours of conversions by the sword.
‘Who knows what is the nizam’s mind?’ sighed the rajah. ‘The best that may be said is that he despises tolerantly. Though he would not do even thus were there a Christian realm on his borders.’
‘That is hardly likely, sir, from all I have heard. The missioners make few converts, even where they are active.’
The rajah frowned. ‘Captain Hervey, the missioners would need to make only one convert in a Hindoo dominion.’
Hervey was incredulous. ‘You mean, sir, that all a prince’s subjects would be baptized with him?’
The rajah nodded. ‘Indeed, yes – all save his Mussulmen, no doubt. So you see, Captain Hervey, it would take a ruler as great as the Emperor Constantine to adopt that alien faith.’ And he smiled benevolently.
Hervey smiled too, for he knew well enough that Constantine’s conversion had as much to do with the promise of victory as anything else.
As indeed did the rajah. ‘His triumph over his fellow Caesar brought the Christians freedom to worship – yes. But I do believe his own conversion, a little later, was rather more profound.’
‘On this, who could argue?’ replied Hervey, ‘for a man’s heart – as the nizam’s bears witness – is in the end impossible to know.’
The rajah was much intrigued. ‘Mr Selden will never talk of that faith. He refers me only to the creeds.What is your opinion in this?’
Rarely did Hervey feel less adequate for a task. ‘Mr Selden,’ he began, confident that here at least he was on ground of which he could be moderately certain, ‘does not believe. That is to say, he does not believe yet. For the rest, I fear that I could give you but an unsatisfactory answer. The Nicene creed is – by my understanding – a sufficient account.’
‘You could not account more sufficiently for your own faith, Captain Hervey? I would be astonished if this were so.’
The challenge was as fair as it was difficult, he conceded.
‘Perhaps, therefore, you may ponder on it until this time tomorrow, and then we may resume. I do so feel the want of scholarship here in Chintalpore in these times.’
Hervey agreed readily enough, pleased the rajah did not press him now. To what purpose this exchange was directed, he had not the slightest idea; nor why, indeed, the rajah should at this moment feel so driven to introduce it when so much else demanded his attention. How he wished himself free of intrigue. It was uncommonly difficult to share a man’s table while at the same time being a deceiver.
Such escape was a vain hope, though. There was no dismissal in the rajah’s invitation to ponder on the creed. Instead, his aspect became grave once more as he took the bible from Hervey and placed it back in the recess. ‘Now I wish to consider with you the great danger that Chintal finds herself in,’ he said, walking to the window and glancing with more than a suggestion of anxiety towards the city. ‘I have today received intelligence that the nizam’s artillery is being assembled close to our border.’
Hervey could scarce believe it. Only a moment before, the rajah was speaking of receiving the nizam here in Chintalpore.
‘The nizam has very great artillery, Captain Hervey: he has pieces so big that the walls of any fortress would be quickly reduced.’
The exact import of the rajah’s intelligence was beyond Hervey at that moment, but the movement of artillery was a usual presage of hostilities. ‘I have heard of the formidable power of these batteries, of course, Your Highness – the nizam’s beautiful daughters?’
‘Just so – the nizam’s daughters. The daughters of Eve no less, for such power tempts a man to more than might be his due. The nizam has three sons, also – the basest of men. They have often boasted what they would do with these guns. The nizam himself at one time I called a friend, but he is become enfeebled. His sons will not be satisfied until they have disseised me of Chintal. I know they have exacted plunder from the Pindarees, and encouraged them – and aided them – in ravaging us, but the gold which my Gond subjects extract from the rivers and hills, with all the skill of their ancestors, is what their minds are set on. Captain Hervey, would you consider it possible to fight the nizam when we have but a half-dozen light pieces?’
The prospect was absurd. Had not Bonaparte himself said that it was with artillery that war was made? ‘Your Highness, I hardly know the particulars . . . And you have Colonel Cadorna to give you this advice, a man of greater experience than me.’
‘But he is not with me at this moment, Captain Hervey – and you are one of the Duke of Wellington’s own officers.’
It seemed pointless confessing his own narrow regimental seasoning. He wondered if the rajah somehow hinted obliquely at the obligation of the jagirs, as explained by Selden. Was this why the rajah had mentioned the duke’s name? ‘Your Highness, I am a mere staff captain. You ask me things which are of sovereign importance to Chintal—’
‘I do, Captain Hervey,’ said the rajah, softly but resolutely.
Hervey had now to think, as it were, on two tracks – as a horse responding to contrary aids. The rajah wished for his strategical opinion: that itself required the very greatest address. But he also had to consider what effect his opinion might have on the outcome of his mission, for whatever the true importance of the jagirs, his mission as stated demanded an estimate of Haidarabad’s fighting capacity. And implicit in their speaking now was Hervey’s acceptance of the nizam as the enemy – the nizam, ‘our faith
ful ally’ as Colonel Grant had called him. How he wished he had gone to Calcutta in the first instance. Yet how might the duke’s greater purpose be served if a man as good as the rajah were crushed? Nor was it merely a question of the worthiness of men: the independence of Chintal – the collector had made it clear – was a pressing matter to the Company. And was it not the nizam’s sons who were the enemy rather than the nizam himself? In any event, the rajah expected an answer. ‘Your Highness, if the precepts on which war is made are universal, then I fear that I have no counsel but to seek terms. But something Mr Selden has said to me may indicate that in India it may not be quite so: bullocks, money and faithful spies are the sinews of war here.’
The rajah looked encouraged.
Indeed, Selden’s words seemed to gain in substance even as Hervey spoke them. Peto’s treatise on the art of manoeuvring, which had been his constant companion these past weeks, was coming alive at last as he began to imagine the rudiments of a strategy – a strategy, indeed, not without precedent. ‘Sir,’ he resumed, and rather more resolutely, ‘the Duke of Marlborough, who mastered the French a century ago, used to say that no war can be conducted without good and early intelligence. I believe, therefore, that it is of the first importance that you should know everything there is to be known of the nizam’s intentions, and in the case of your own intentions you must dissemble to the utmost.’ He took another breath, half-surprised by his own authority. ‘You have two able rissalahs of cavalry. They should be your eyes and ears on the borders with Haidarabad; they should deceive his spies as to your strength and intentions; and, perhaps above all, they should attack at once wherever it appears the nizam’s forces are assembling, for though their material success might be limited, the moral effect would be incalculable.’
It was a faint hope, a very faint hope; scarcely grand strategy. But Hervey said it with enough resolve for the rajah to be encouraged. ‘I am indeed fortunate to have two matchless rissalahs,’ he agreed. ‘But now, Captain Hervey, let us eat – and perhaps you might begin to elaborate on your plan.’
The sudden commotion outside made the rajah start. Hervey sprang up as, seconds later, the doors flew open and in stumbled a sepoy officer smeared in blood glistening still in its freshness. Hervey lunged towards him but saw at once he could be no threat to the rajah’s safety.
The rajah’s look of anguish turned to utter dismay. ‘Subedar sahib, what has happened?’
Subedar Mhisailkar, a thickset Maratha officer who had served the rajah for thirty years, was crying like a child. ‘Sahib, sahib,’ he wailed, ‘the sepoys are killing their officers!’
His Urdu was garbled but plain enough. The rajah was unable to speak. ‘Call the jemadar,’ Hervey shouted to a bearer ‘—and Locke-sahib and Seldensahib!’
The rajah, recovering somewhat, sent for his physician and sat the old soldier down on cushions, bringing him lime-water and dabbing at the blood about his eyes with a silk square. ‘My old friend,’ he cried, ‘how could my sepoys do this to you, of all people?’
Hervey’s admiration was now as great as his pity, for here was no native despot of popular imagination, no brutal prince who would bait tigers with village boys. Whatever had brought the sepoys at Jhansikote to this, it could not have been the rajah’s tyranny.
The jemadar of the guard came running. He looked frightened. And then Selden, and Henry Locke.
‘Remember what they say,’ warned Locke; ‘the first news of battle is brought by him that runs away the soonest.’
Hervey nodded. ‘Yet I’m not inclined to believe it so in this case.’
Little by little, with many questions and diversions into Marathi, they were able to gain a picture of what had passed at the cantonments. Soon after dark, it seemed, the sepoys, led by some of their native officers, had broken into the armoury and the quarters of Colonel Cadorna and the battalion commanders, who, with their families, were the only white faces in the absence of the cavalry. All were now dead, said the subedar: wives, children, servants – everyone.
‘They waited for the rissalahs to leave,’ said the rajah, shaking his head.
‘How long will it take for them to return?’ asked Hervey.
The rajah smiled ironically. ‘They are beyond the Godavari. It would take two days to get them back this side. These sepoy leaders have been clever. I see the hand of the nizam in this – or of his sons.’
One of the rajah’s physicians had begun to examine the subedar’s wounds, and the rajah himself made to assist despite the entreaties from both.
Selden took Hervey to one side. ‘You must leave here at once.’
Hervey was taken aback by his insistence. ‘Don’t talk so: how can I walk away at this moment? In any case, you’re assuming the worst.’
‘There’s nothing else to assume!’
‘And you would leave, too?’
‘Hervey, I have never had what would pass in the Sixth for courage; but there comes a time—’
‘And this same time is the time for me to walk Spanish?’
‘Matthew Hervey, you have duties elsewhere but to the rajah.’
He thought for a moment – not long. A look came to his eyes which Selden had not seen before: a cold, mercenary look, a grim smile almost. ‘I shall stay. The rajah has no-one else—’
‘That’s all very noble but—’
‘Not noble,’ said Hervey, his brow furrowing, ‘not at all noble.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The price is those jagirs.’
‘For heaven’s sake, man! You would throw your own life away to pull the duke’s fat out of the fire?’
Hervey frowned again. ‘I don’t have any option. I’ve hazarded my mission by going against orders.’
Selden simply stared at him.
‘There’s only one means of redemption in the military,’ he smiled ruefully. ‘I want that page from the land registry.’
The raj kumari came, her face as angry as the jemadar’s had been afraid. ‘Father, have the rissalahs been summoned?’
They had not. The rajah looked at Hervey.
He ignored the question. ‘What do you believe the sepoys will do now, Subedar sahib?’ he asked instead, and then repeated himself as best he could in Urdu.
The subedar said they would wait for first light and then march on Chintalpore.
‘And they would be here within three hours,’ said Selden.
Locke was silent; so were the raj kumari and the jemadar.
Hervey looked back at Selden, whose nod sealed the bargain. ‘Then we have until dawn,’ he said gravely.
‘No,’ said Selden, ‘until three hours after dawn – eight o’clock.’
Hervey shook his head emphatically. ‘No: we have only until dawn. If upwards of two thousand sepoys fall upon the palace it will be but a matter of time before it is taken – less time than there is for the rissalahs to return. We have to stop them leaving their cantonments.’
The rajah looked as astonished as Selden. ‘How?’ they asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied calmly. ‘I cannot know until I get there. How many sowars do you have, Jemadar sahib?’
The jemadar looked even more worried: ‘Only twenty, sahib!’
Hervey fixed him with a look he hoped would pass for steel. ‘Do not say only twenty: say twenty!’
‘Yes, sahib – twenty, sahib!’
‘And galloper guns?’
‘Yes, sahib – one, sahib!’ The resolution, insane though first it seemed, was growing.
‘Locke – lieutenant of Marines – you are with me?’ said Hervey, turning square to him.
‘Hervey, I shan’t shrink from a fight, but is this one we are meant to be about?’
Locke’s prudence did him credit, Hervey knew full well. If they were elsewhere now but in Chintalpore there would be no question . . . ‘I could not in honour stand aside. I can say no more.’
A grim smile came over Locke’s face, for it did not augur well for the return of
Locke-hall to its rightful owner. But fighting was what he did best above all things. ‘I say “Ay, ay”, then!’
‘Selden – will you stay to guard the rajah with your syces?’
‘What choice do I have, Matthew Hervey?’ The suspicion of a smile crossed his lips too.
‘Sir,’ said Hervey then, turning to the rajah, ‘is there any safer place for you or the raj kumari than here? The forest perhaps?’
The raj kumari answered in his place, a note of defiance in her voice – resentment, even. ‘We shall remain here, Captain ’Ervey. Shiva shall be our guard!’
There was a knock at the open door, an incongruous sound in the turmoil. ‘Captain ’Ervey, sir, is everything all right?’
Now at last Hervey could permit himself a true smile, for Johnson’s blitheness, his imperviousness to all beyond what intruded on the next minute, allowed nothing other.
* * *
When all but he and Selden had left the chamber, the rajah asked if what Hervey proposed had the slightest chance of success. Whether, indeed, it made the least amount of sense.
‘The answer to both, sir,’ sighed Selden, ‘in terms that would be understood by me, or most men for that matter, is no. But, as says the Bible, the battle is not always to the strong. Matthew Hervey is a brave man, believe me.’
The rajah looked thoughtful. ‘Where exactly in the Bible does it say that the battle is not to the strong?’
Selden was abashed. ‘I am very much afraid, sir, that I do not have the slightest idea.’
There was, thankfully, a moon; enough to permit Hervey’s little force to leave Chintalpore along the road to Jhansikote at a brisk trot. Four kos – nearly ten miles: they could be there by midnight. And then what? Three hours or so to think of something.
The Nizam's Daughters Page 24
