The Nizam's Daughters

by Mallinson, Allan

  ‘Oh, I remember it, Captain Hervey,’ she laughed. ‘Only when I forget it shall I feel inclined to return to England!’

  There was a great commotion in the stables as they arrived. Every horse’s ear was pricked, there was whinnying in every quarter and the punkahs had stopped – the servers crowding the end doors to hear the news. A galloper from Jhansikote, a young jemadar, dust-covered, was demanding to know where the salutri was. The babble of syces, bhistis, grasscutters and sweepers made as little sense to him as to Hervey. ‘Where is the salutri!’ he tried for the fourth time.

  Hervey pushed his way through the crowd, the jemadar snapping to attention as he saw him. ‘Very well, Jemadar sahib,’ he replied, touching his forehead to acknowledge, ‘what is the matter?’

  The jemadar had a little English and some Urdu, and so Hervey was not long in discovering the cause. There was horse plague at Jhansikote. A dozen had already succumbed to choking, and many more were showing the same symptoms. Captain Bauer believed there would not be a horse left standing by the end of the month at this rate of contagion.

  ‘What is the cause of the sickness?’ asked Hervey, having managed to silence the babble.

  The jemadar said they did not know. There had been no new horse arrive that might have been infected, nor had there been any change in feeding. The sickness was a mystery.

  ‘And Mr Selden laid low with fever, too,’ said Emma Lucie, her own Urdu quite good enough for the exchange.

  Hervey nodded ruefully.

  ‘But we are sure he is still indisposed?’ she asked.

  The ambiguity was not without its effect. ‘I had better go and find him,’ he sighed. ‘I have not seen him in two days.’ But he was already steeling himself to another ride to Jhansikote, for he could hardly expect Selden to be in hale condition, no matter how remitted was his fever.

  ‘What do you suppose the horse sickness might be?’ asked Emma Lucie once the jemadar had left. ‘Do you suspect an evil hand?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of one with such reach – that’s for sure,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But in India . . . as you keep saying. If the symptoms are as the jemadar describes, though, I should say glanders, or strangles perhaps – farcy, even. But who knows what fevers there are in this country? The heat alone must account for many.’

  ‘Glanders, strangles?’ she frowned. ‘Have you met with these before?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen a case.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said simply.

  ‘Just so, Miss Lucie. Let us pray that Mr Selden is in a sufficient state of consciousness to give me some direction – for I see no other course but to go myself. I can hardly stand by here, even if I am to leave at the end of the week.’

  But Selden was not in a sufficient state. He was in a delirium once more, the punkah-wallah working hard to keep the stale air in his chamber moving, and his ringleted Bengali bearer sponging his forehead devotedly. Hervey sat in the chamber for some time, hopeful of even the briefest period of consciousness in which Selden might give his opinion. What a broken reed was the salutri, he lamented. Emma Lucie’s allegations pressed themselves on him, and he found himself wondering what manner of vices and intrigues Selden had allowed himself to be drawn into. When he left him, after a full half-hour in which he had neither stirred nor made the slightest sound, his heart was heavy with the thought that even if he were to see him again, alive, it might indeed be under indictment for the sepoys’ batta. He could not by any means bring himself to contemplate the connection with the murder of Kunal Verma, but the suggestion he could not escape. He needed to find Henry Locke.

  Locke was not, as the collector had sneered, in the embraces of his nautch girl, but engaged in vigorous bayonet exercises with the sepoys of the palace guard. His powerful shoulders were unmatched by any in that mock combat, and he gave fearful impulsion to the two feet of steel at the end of his musket. The entire company was assembled in a half-covered court that served as an exercise yard to see Locke the gymnasiarch, and nautch girls watched coyly from a balcony. Even in the shade the heat was oppressive, and he was in a lather as great as a pony in a gallop, his cheesecloth shirt clinging to his chest as a second skin. He was smiling, nevertheless, enjoying the exhilaration of the combat and the adulation of the sepoys. ‘So you are to be brigadier, or thereabouts,’ he said with a broad grin as Hervey came up.

  ‘You have heard, too? There’s nothing, it seems, that waits to be passed in the usual way.’ He handed Locke a towel. ‘I’ve not yet said “yes” though. There’s much to think about. You’re not offended, I hope, by the manner of hearing?’

  Locke smiled. ‘Hervey, it was whispered in my ear by the most perfect lips I have ever tasted.’

  Now Hervey smiled. At least there was one man in this princely state who took his pleasures as they came – and could face death with equal readiness. He was glad Locke had found a little happiness; no-one deserved it more.

  ‘So what vexes you now?’

  Hervey explained the calamity that had befallen the rissalahs. ‘I intend going there at once, for Selden’s in no condition to. If they lose horses at the rate the jemadar reports then Chintal will be to all intents defenceless. The sepoys, we know, are less than wholly reliable. The Rajpoots are true, but they can’t be in two places at once.’

  Locke nodded his understanding.

  ‘Would you take charge here?’ said Hervey, a little unsure.

  He smiled. ‘If such a notion is conceivable, for it implies there’s already some order! You know, Hervey, I think these sepoys are so much wind and piss. Any boarding party from a first-rate could take this place from the lot of ’em.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Hervey, ‘perhaps so. Thank heavens the rajah has his sowars.’

  Locke nodded, but the inclination of an eyebrow suggested something was amiss. ‘Are you sure about the rissalahs? Why was Steuben killed? You don’t believe it was an accident?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hervey, as if the accusation touched him personally, ‘I hardly think that—’

  Locke smiled wryly. ‘You mean it is inconceivable that a cavalry officer could do something so base? “Un chevalier sans peur et sans reproche?” Humbug!’

  Hervey looked embarrassed, and struggled to find the right words.

  ‘Forget it, man!’ said Locke, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘There’s only one left anyway, isn’t there?’

  ‘Alter Fritz?’ exclaimed Hervey. ‘He is no more capable of anything so base than—’

  ‘Than anyone else who’s been deprived of Christian company for a dozen years!’

  Hervey frowned. The trouble was – he knew full well – that Locke was the more prudent in this. ‘By the way,’ he whispered as he handed him another towel, ‘I’m not going to take the command.’

  ‘What? But I thought—’

  ‘I had it all out last night at great length with the collector. I’ve said nothing yet to the rajah, but there’s an officer coming here from Madras, and the collector’s sure that once the rajah meets him he’ll have every confidence. I’ll then go to Haidarabad.’

  Locke seemed to disapprove. ‘And in the meantime, the rajah continues to think you will take the command?’

  ‘I’m not happy with that. Heaven knows I’m not happy with it. But it’s about the best I can manage in order to do justice to—’

  Locke slapped him on the shoulder again. ‘I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. You’re a King’s officer after all: you can’t just go fortune-hunting.’

  ‘And shall you remain here for the rest of your furlough?’ tried Hervey, not wanting any more discussion of where duty lay.

  Locke glanced around him, and up to where the nautch girls stood, and simply smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Hervey by return. ‘Why indeed should you not?’

  Alter Fritz looked worried. ‘Never have I seen so many horses with fever. Yesterday we had to burn seven more.’ His German had the sound of one whose everyday tongue was no longer his own, its
cadences distinctly native.

  The first thing that puzzled Hervey was why no attempt had been made to isolate those with symptoms of the sickness. Although the stables were airier than many he had known – made more so by the enormous punkahs which swung night and day – there was still a vapour which assaulted the nose and eyes on entering, and on which he supposed the contagion was borne. Alter Fritz explained that, by the time the fever had taken hold, there was nothing they could do to reorder the lines, save making space in one building for the worst cases. And besides, he feared the contagion had now taken hold in the bedding and fabric of the stables. He had considered turning all the horses loose, but he had no means of corralling.

  ‘You had better show me the worst cases, then,’ said Hervey.

  Alter Fritz took him to where two dozen mares and geldings stood motionless in their stalls, heads held unusually still, and silent but for an occasional muted cough. Hervey looked carefully at each of them. All were sweating, and there was discharge from the nose (in some cases as thick as syrup). There were fearful abscesses of the glands beneath and behind the lower jaw, too. Some had erupted, and a thick, creamy pus oozed from them. Alter Fritz said that those horses which had discharged in this way had not then died, but he did not know why some developed the abscesses and some did not. He had observed that if the contagion were retained in the body then the animal grew worse – certainly, the fever continued – whereas it seemed to remit if the abscesses came to a head.

  ‘Have you lanced any of them?’ asked Hervey.

  They had not, replied Alter Fritz, but they had bled every horse.

  Hervey had never liked the notion of bleeding; not since, as a boy, he saw a young horse sever an artery, and watched helplessly as blood poured from it, the colt becoming too weak to stand in but a minute. He could never comprehend, therefore, the principle by which the bleeding of an already enfeebled animal should restore its health.

  Alter Fritz agreed they did not bleed as a rule. ‘But when all else seems of no avail . . .’ he shrugged.

  ‘Very well,’ said Hervey, ‘but let us take the knife to these abscesses instead, since it’s they which appear to be the point of contagion. Those that have died – what was the manner of their dying?’

  Alter Fritz said their breathing became laboured, that they no longer had the strength to draw in breath.

  ‘When did the last one succumb?’

  ‘A little before you arrived – a mare.’

  They went to find her. She was not yet consigned to the pyre since Alter Fritz expected there would be two more by the end of the day. She lay covered in marigolds (the sowars’ customary mark of respect), and by a mound of brushwood that would later be torched. Hervey could not help but think it curious that, in a land where life seemed to be held so cheap, one troop-horse should be accorded such honour. In England it would be the limepit – or hound trenchers – and no ceremony.

  The angle of the mare’s jaw was sorely swollen but rigor mortis had not yet set in. He asked for a knife, and one of the farriers gave him his razor.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Alter Fritz.

  ‘I want to see if the abscesses have taken hold within,’ he replied. But first he asked that the horse’s mouth be opened as far as possible so that he could probe inside. Sowars crowded round to help or watch. He slipped his hand into her mouth, probing with a finger. ‘The soft palate’s compressed; she simply couldn’t breathe.’

  ‘Why is it swollen, think you, Hervey?’ asked Alter Fritz, holding a handkerchief to his nose.

  ‘Not swollen, compressed. I’m pretty sure it’s the abscesses about the jaw and neck which cause the compression.’ He pointed to the swellings, none of which showed signs of having discharged. And then, with the razor, he incised two of them and squeezed until pus spurted.

  ‘Ach, das ist schlimm!’ spat Alter Fritz.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hervey, his German unconsciously assuming the emphatic inflections of Alter Fritz’s, ‘very nasty indeed. I think it’s a case of – I don’t know how you say it in German – strangles.’

  Alter Fritz looked puzzled.

  Hervey put his hands to his neck: ‘Strangle – erdrosseln?’

  He understood. But he had not seen a case either, nor did he know anything about it.

  ‘If it is strangles,’ continued Hervey, shaking his head, ‘we must try to bring the abscesses to a head and then lance them to take the pressure off the pharynx. Never have I seen sores so big. Everything in this country seems to grow to twice the size of what it would be in England.’ He wiped his hands on some cotton waste and stepped back from the carcass. ‘Tell your sowars to make poultices for their horses, and to keep cleaning the nostrils. Make up soft feeds which can be swallowed easily. Add syrup to make it appealing. And everything which comes into contact with any discharge must be burned, and the sowars must wash their hands before they attend to any horse that doesn’t already show the symptoms. I’m sure the contagion is in the body fluids.’

  Alter Fritz acknowledged the instructions. ‘And you believe, Hervey, that we might save a few?’

  ‘I see no reason why we should not. Except that – as I understand it – there’s a complication to the disease known as bastard strangles, where the abscesses spread to the thorax and abdomen – and when they burst there’s such corruption that the horse dies no matter what is done. I was inclined to cut her open to search for such signs, but the pharynx is so compressed that there’s little purpose.’

  Alter Fritz had begun to look more confident, but he now lowered his voice and screwed up his face. ‘Hervey, there’s one horse in particular you should see.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The raj kumari’s mare shows these symptoms too. It has been here with the rissalahs this month past.’

  ‘Oh,’ he groaned. Why were there always complications? ‘I’d better take a look at her at once.’

  The little flea-bitten grey stood downcast in her stall on the other side of the maidan, separate from the main lines. Her head stayed still as they came in, her flanks were wet and her breathing shallow.

  ‘How long has she been this way?’ asked Hervey.

  ‘About a week.’

  He felt about her lower jaw and neck. There were the tell-tale swellings. ‘Inform her syce that he must poultice at least three times a day to draw the poison to the surface. There’s little more we can do. She’ll be at her worst in another three days or so.’

  He stayed with her until he was satisfied the syce could do the job properly, and then spent the remainder of the afternoon supervising the others to see they kept the discipline of burning the used wadding. Alter Fritz asked if strangles could pass from horse to man, to which Hervey replied that he did not know, but that he supposed it less likely if the men did as he bid in respect of vigorous hand-washing. And so all afternoon Hervey and the old German worked side by side – encouraging, demonstrating, upbraiding, labouring, consoling. Then, as the sun was beginning its descent over the forest towards Chintalpore, they retired to the officers’ quarters for restorative measures of whiskey and seltzer, and the prospect of a good supper. Bearers brought bowls of hot water, clean shirts and hose, fresh decanters and bottles. In a quarter of an hour they were sunk into deep leather chairs, exhausted but still hopeful. Alter Fritz closed his eyes briefly, allowing Hervey to search his face for what signs of perfidy might be etched in those sunweathered features. He saw none. Indeed, he saw nothing but the bluff openness of an old quartermaster – wily, perhaps, but never a deceiver.

  But then the prospect of their good supper was rudely dispelled by the arrival of the last person they would have wished to see in the circumstances. The raj kumari came in without ceremony, though, her anxiety quite evident. Hervey sat her down and called for the khitmagar. Dust fell from her shoulders still, and the same long breeches she had worn for the hunt clung to her with the sweat of the fleet young Arab she had galloped from Chintalpore. He offered her seltzer, which she
accepted with the addition of the whiskey. She had come at once, she explained, for Gita was the issue of her own mother’s mare. Hervey told her what he had found, and what they were doing. She seemed thankful, but asked if a sadhu had attended. When she learned not, she gave instructions for one to be brought without delay to say prayers and perform his rituals. A naik was despatched to the bazaar, and he returned within the hour.

  The holy man was but skin and bone, and covered in white ash. His hair was thickly matted, he carried a begging bowl and flute, and he made repeated namaste to the raj kumari. They took him to her mare, and he stood contemplating in silence for several minutes. At length he breathed into her nostrils, sat down crosslegged in front of her and began a sing-song mantra, shaking violently all the while. Hervey watched from the corner of the stable, glad of the excuse for respite. The raj kumari stood close by, swaying to the sadhu’s mantra as she had that day in the forest. After five minutes the holy man stopped abruptly, rose and bowed deeply to the little mare. Then he turned to the raj kumari and spoke to her in Telugu. He explained that the horse was very small and there was much poison in her. He might revive her for a short while, but he could not thwart the will of Shiva. He had done his best to draw out the malignant spirit of the poison, but . . .

  With great composure, the raj kumari thanked him and placed a purse of silver in his begging bowl, asking him to visit each of the sick horses in turn. The sadhu returned her thanks, bowed low again, and shuffled off with the naik in the direction of the other lines. ‘He does not expect her to live,’ she said as he left. ‘He says there is too much poison in her body – too much poison.’

  Hervey measured his response carefully. There could not, to his mind, be the slightest possibility that the sadhu’s ministrations could have any effect on the outcome of the sickness. He did not even know whether or not the raj kumari herself believed that they would. But evidently she believed that they might. He had a strong desire to dissuade her from her superstition, yet he had already known her antagonism, and he did not wish it greater now. ‘Your Highness, do you wish me to continue with my treatment? I am merely trying to draw out the poison to which the sadhu refers.’