For many it was both. No matter which way they ran — forward, left or right — they were met with fire or the lance. Or, for those who tried to clamber back over the bodies of their fellows, strewn across the maidan like pebbles thrown about the sand, there were the multiple bags of grape which Locke was now firing with double charges that sent the gun jumping ten feet in its recoil. Those sepoys who, in this economical yet lethal crossfire, were able to recover their individual senses began to prostrate themselves in abject surrender. One way or another, in a few more minutes there was no-one left standing in the maidan.
Hervey knew what would happen next if he did not take action at once. The exhilaration — the relief — of being alive and in command of the battlefield would turn to a dangerous torpor. If he let go now he might never be able to rouse his eighty stout hearts again. They must not wait for the sun to rise, when those mutineers not prostrate before them would see just how few they were. He set about quartering and combing the maidan with the Rajpoots and corralling the surrendered in his new allies’ former prison, using the lancers as drovers — all the while covering the entrance with the galloper gun, though it had little ammunition left. As day broke — rapidly, as always — they had cleared the maidan of the living and halfdead, leaving the lifeless — already the object of swarms of ants and flies — to impede the next wave, and were braced for another attack. Of the infantry at Jhansikote, sixty stood with Hervey, three hundred were secured in the granary, and as many were lying in the maidan. There might be a thousand yet to account for. He knew he could not suppose his position as strong as before: the Rajpoots had plenty of ball cartridge, it was true, but the gun had next to nothing and they no longer had the advantage of night. Spirits were high, though: they had not lost a man. The mutineers had scarce fired a shot.
Only now did it occur to him: why had they not fired? Why, indeed, were there no skirmishers harrying them from the walls? He ran forward, cursing, to examine a musket lying on the ground. It wasn’t loaded, or even primed. He picked up another — the same. And another, and another — all without charge or ball! So their leaders were going to issue powder and shot only as they marched, said Hervey aloud; or perhaps only when they reached Chintalpore. Such was the insurance that perfidy required! ‘The race is to the swift,’ said Hervey aloud.
Johnson furrowed his brow. ‘Tha’s not quoting scripture again, sir?’
‘I am,’ replied Hervey. ‘Indeed I am challenging it — Ecclesiastes no less!’
His groom looked bemused.
‘Ecclesiastes — Solomon’s great work on the vanity of man: “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong… but time and chance happeneth to them all.” Time and chance happeneth to all, Johnson!’
‘Very pretty, Captain ’Ervey, but where does it get us next?’
‘It takes us into the cantonment. It takes us right into their lines. And we shall not fire another round! Fetch Jessye and ask the jemadar and his troopers to assemble!’
XIII. LOST SOULS
Chintalpore, that evening
With an escort of two sowars and Private Johnson, Locke rode hard for the palace, through the heat of the afternoon, and arrived as the sun was beginning its descent beyond the hills west of Chintalpore. He had ridden through the city, and it was not its customary bustle. The nervousness among merchants and beggars alike was everywhere evident, for fifteen hundred mutineers descending on them was not a fair prospect. The palace was even more nervous. The water level in the lake that now served as a moat around three sides was higher than when they had left — testimony to Selden’s address in attending to the defences — and the droog had piles of teak logs at intervals along its slope, secured by ropes which would be cut in the face of the advancing sepoys. A steady procession of elephants was still bringing logs as Locke and Johnson slowed their mounts to a trot for the climb to the palace gates. Once inside they found the rajah in his menagerie, alone, seemingly reconciled to the cataclysm about to befall his house. When he saw them it was with heightened despair, for their bloodstained clothes and grimy faces spoke of defeat. But they did not look like men who had fled slaughter, the enemy pressing hard on their heels. ‘Mr Locke,’ exclaimed the rajah, shaking his head in confusion, ‘I had imagined—’
The raj kumari appeared, as close to running as a princess might. Locke saw little point in waiting on ceremony. ‘Your Highness, the mutiny is put down. The ringleaders are restrained, and the rest have been disarmed and are confined to the cantonment. A company of Rajpoots remained loyal. Their help was capital: without it all might have been lost. Captain Hervey remains with them. Are your cavalry returning, sir?’
The rajah was speechless. His disbelief showed clearly as he turned to Selden, also come running, redfaced and sweating. ‘Do we yet know if they return, Mr Selden?’
‘We do, Your Highness,’ he replied, gasping for breath. ‘They will be here by dawn tomorrow.’ And then he turned anxiously to Locke: ‘Hervey — is he unhurt then?’
‘Yes, we suffered little but a scratch — the entire force.’
The rajah looked even more incredulous (and Selden scarcely less so). ‘Please tell us of it, Mr Locke,’ he said, motioning him to a bower-seat close by and beckoning his khansamah to bring refreshment.
Locke recounted the story with such vivid grasp of detail that neither Selden, the raj kumari nor the rajah made a sound during its telling. He spoke of himself only when it was necessary for narrative completeness, he praised the jemadar and the dafadar, and many sowars by name, gave honour to the Rajpoots, especially their subedar, and even included Private Johnson in the paean. But throughout his account shone Hervey’s resolution, his resourcefulness and courage. ‘When dawn came,’ he continued, scarcely able to believe it himself, ‘Captain Hervey rode with a dozen sowars deep into the mutineers’ lines and demanded they surrender and throw themselves on Your Highness’s mercy. He had concluded they had muskets but no ammunition — but, even so, they had bayonets enough to make pincushions of us all. He told them that discipline was the soul of an army and that they had lost their souls when they had set themselves against Your Highness’s authority. He told them they could never hope for paradise if they didn’t redeem themselves now as soldiers.’
‘And they took him at his word?’ asked Selden doubtfully.
‘He also said that if they did not surrender at once he would kill every one of them.’
‘A skilful reinforcement of his appeal to their nobility,’ smiled the veterinarian.
‘Yes: he led them onto the maidan in formed companies and made them pile arms before attending their wounded and building pyres for the dead. They even gave up their leaders and those who had killed the European officers.’
The rajah expressed himself humbled by this account of the bravery of his loyal sowars and Rajpoots — and, even more, of those who were not his subjects but his guests. He turned to the raj kumari. ‘What say you of this, my daughter?’ he asked softly.
‘I say that we are ever in the debt of Captain Hervey,’ she replied, though without enthusiasm. Indeed, almost with a hint of discouragement.
The rajah turned to Locke again. ‘And was there any indication of the cause that made my sipahis rise against my officers?’
‘There was, sir,’ replied Locke firmly.
The rajah waited silently for enlightenment.
Locke looked about to see exactly who his audience now comprised.
‘Come, Mr Locke,’ urged the rajah, ‘you may speak as you find. All here are my loyal servants.’
Locke was uncertain on that point. Nevertheless he would conclude his report. ‘It appears that the sepoys’ batta has been withheld these past twelve months.’
The rajah looked puzzled.
Selden was yet more sceptical. ‘But batta is an allowance, paid only when a sepoy must fend for himself — when there are no quarters or rations. And even then the money is held by the havildar-ma
jors, who pay the merchants direct. The sepoy scarcely ever sees it.’
The rajah protested that the cantonments at Jhansikote were newly built, and that his sepoys should not have wanted for food or shelter.
‘Just so, sir,’ agreed Selden.
‘But it appears, as well,’ continued Locke (he had not thought any practice so elaborate could exist outside his own service), ‘that the sepoys have been placed under stoppages for quartering and rations. This they would not have objected to had they been paid batta.’
The rajah looked more sad than angry. ‘How might my own soldiers believe I would ill-serve them in this way? Who is responsible for this, Mr Selden?’
‘I could not immediately conclude, Your Highness,’ replied Selden, appearing still to be astonished by the revelation. ‘There might be several, but it is probable that all are now dead. I shall begin at once — with your leave — to investigate the matter.’
The rajah said he would be obliged. ‘Is there anything more, Mr Locke? I am eager to know what we may do to restore the peace that we hitherto enjoyed.’
‘Sir, Captain Hervey pledged that every sepoy would receive a pardon if he had committed no direct violence against an officer. He has told them they must swear to serve for one year without pay in order to regain their honour. And all, indeed, were swearing thus before the sadhu as I left. But he believes that if you were to go there in person and release them from that part of their oath binding them to serve without pay then they would be doubly beholden to you.’
The rajah had no inclination to dispute Hervey’s command of the circumstances. Indeed, he was impressed by his contriving this magnanimity. Yet he had his doubts. ‘Why did the Rajpoots not mutiny likewise? Were they not deprived of their batta too?’
‘I do not wholly understand this, Your Highness,’ began Locke hesitantly, ‘but the Rajpoots seem to believe they are in the service of the Maharana of Mewar, albeit seconded to yourself.’
The rajah sighed and raised his eyebrows sadly. ‘My brother-in-law. Yes, one company of Rajpoots comprised part of the dowry of my late and most honoured wife. It seems that, even in death, she has been my deliverance.’
‘I am perplexed, however,’ said Selden, ‘that the rissalahs seem to have been insusceptible to the cause of the mutiny.’
‘It would appear, Your Highness,’ replied Locke, ‘that in their case no quartering or other charges were ever levied.’
‘And what might therefore be the feeling of my sowars — and Rajpoots — when I tell the sepoys at Jhansikote that I will take them back into service? Might they not be resentful that they serve loyally on no better terms than those who have broken their trust?’
‘Captain Hervey supposed that you would ask that question, sir,’ replied Locke, unbuttoning a pocket.
‘And what was his answer?’ asked the rajah.
He reached inside the pocket and pulled out a folded note. ‘He refers you to this, sir.’
The rajah took the paper and read.
Sir,
St Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter 20 — the labourers in the vineyard. And increase of pay for lancers and Rajpoots.
M.H.
Capt.
The merest suggestion of a smile came to his lips. ‘What an eminently practical faith has Captain Hervey. Excuse me, gentlemen, if you will; I have things on which to reflect. Mr Locke, I cannot begin to express my gratitude. Mr Selden, would you please make whatever arrangements are necessary.’
Hervey returned to Chintalpore late next day. The rissalahs had arrived that morning and he had been pleased — and confident — to leave command of Jhansikote, and more especially its prisoners, in the hands of Captain Steuben; and, too, of Subedar Mhisailkar, who had ridden hard (as perhaps only a Maratha could) to join them as soon as the native doctors had been able to staunch the wounds about his head and body. Hervey did not doubt that the ringleaders would, and should, face execution, but he had insisted that it should not be carried out summarily — contrary to Locke’s urging of robust naval discipline. Instead he wished for trial by some duly appointed tribunal. He knew not by what articles and regulations these men served, but he supposed there must be some procedure akin to the court martial even in Chintal. Locke had argued that there was but one decision to be made — the firing squad or the hangman’s rope. And Hervey had not been without sympathy for that sentiment, especially after seeing how the European officers and their families had been butchered. But he sensed that a display of ceremony, of gravity, in the exercising of military discipline would have a greater, more enduring, effect than would the mere exercise of superior force. The latter might easily be countered by greater force at some time in the future, whereas the former might speak to something deeper in the sepoys’ character.
The rajah, not unnaturally, wished that Hervey be at once fêted, but seeing his pulled-down condition allowed him instead to retire to his apartments. There he bathed and lay a long time thinking of what he must severally write in the letters now long overdue. It had been two days only since the affair with the raj kumari in the forest, but it seemed an age. He must write to Henrietta to lay before her his absolute devotion. Until this were done his heart was still unfaithful. But first it was his duty to make a further report to the Duke of Wellington, for now the situation was materially changed. The rajah had seen the nizam’s hand at Jhansikote, and the pretext of the batta did nothing now, in Hervey’s view, to hide it. He knew sufficient of the state of affairs in Haidarabad, albeit entirely from third parties, to warn the duke that his expectation of a cooperating alliance might not be as favourable as he had hoped.
He had also to write to Fort George to reacquaint them with the parlous condition of the rajah’s domain. Its contiguity with both the nizam’s and the Company’s must render Chintal of especial significance — as, indeed, the collector had indicated. He would now urge Philip Lucie to suggest to the Madras council that sympathetic overtures be made to the rajah, to offer him the Company’s protection. And then he might with honour quit Chintal and continue on the duke’s mission. Concerning the jagirs, he expected Selden to act without further delay.
But the letter to Henrietta — how should that be? What weight ought he to place on what passed in the forest? Was its remembrance to him grievous, its burden intolerable? Was his guilt encompassed sufficiently by those words from the General Confession? Or might he have to seek specific absolution, as his Prayer Book required? In truth, it was almost as nothing now. The sudden return to the simple essentials of his profession — the sabre in the hand — somehow ordered things clearly and set them into proper perspective. For the past six months and more he had scarcely been a soldier. He had skulked in the shadows, as it were, jeopardizing his soldier’s honour. And honour was not divisible: a lady might not partially lose her honour, nor a soldier likewise. If he lived in the shadows then he would do things which did not bear light shining on them.
There was a knock at the door and, before he could answer, the raj kumari entered. He sprang to his feet and expressed himself certain that it was not proper she should be there.
‘Captain Hervey, do you have so little regard for me — or yourself — that you would send me away without hearing what I came to say?’
‘Forgive me, madam; I merely thought it best that…’ His voice trailed off, allowing her to take the initiative once more.
‘Captain Hervey, in India there are many demons which do battle with Shiva. They take possession of the mind and the body. Do not suppose that in the forest you or I were master or mistress of ourselves. We had intruded on the hamadryads, observed their most secret rituals of courtship, and in doing so had become possessed by their spirits.’
Here indeed was a convenient religion — one that might account no-one responsible for his actions. Hervey was unsure of his response. Besides, the notion that it had not been the raj kumari who had writhed beside him in the forest, but instead a spirit of that forest, was hardly flattering to his manhood. He sa
w Henrietta in that dark beauty — strangely and unaccountably, for the raj kumari’s looks were not in any detail those of his distant love. Rather was it, perhaps, the way she held her head, lowered and to one side, so that her eyes had to lift slightly to meet his: Henrietta’s way when she teased, and tempted, him most — that challenge in her look and voice which made him weigh every word before he dare speak it, for she would give no quarter. Might he, therefore, take some comfort in the raj kumari’s philosophy — that it was Henrietta to whom he had been drawn, and by whom he had been so fired?
Such an explanation could hardly serve. He bade her — cautiously — to take a seat.
‘Captain Hervey, we are all in your debt,’ she began, adjusting the throw of her saree as she sat. ‘My father will express it better than I am able, but I wished also to thank you.’
He bowed self-consciously.
‘But I confess that I am bewildered by your action. You are not bound by anything — least of all my father’s hospitality — that should make you hazard your life in such a way. Why — and so far from your own people — might you do this? Is it that you love battle so much? That you glory in its dangers?’
‘Not the latter, madam, I assure you. I have never, I believe, shirked battle, but I have never taken pleasure in it. Satisfaction, but never pleasure.’
‘Then what has driven you to do these things here?’
Her suspicion was as artfully concealed as she was able.
How might he begin to explain his actions, with so great a gulf as their sex and their faith between them? ‘Madam, there is nothing more repellent to a soldier than that others who share his calling turn their arms against those who have hitherto trusted them. There is never any justification for mutiny. Discipline is the soul of an army, and when it is gone there is no army — only a brute mob. No soldier can then keep his honour who merely stands by.’
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