‘I am anxious that it intrudes on the purpose for which I was sent to India.’
‘To study the lance? Surely this would be a most opportune commission?’ she replied, puzzled.
‘Yes,’ he nodded, not wishing to pursue it, for she was acute enough to conclude there was more to it than a bamboo pole. ‘Quite so. The command is in any case to be a limited commission — until such time that the rajah gains more confidence in the Company.’
‘And a good command, I imagine — rather bigger than has been yours hitherto?’
He smiled. ‘I had the regiment for a day or so after Waterloo, but this would be the best part of a brigade — a thousand infantry, three hundred cavalry and a field battery. Yes, an exceptional command for a halfcolonel, let alone a captain.’
‘Let us call it a handsome command, then!’
‘Not enough cavalry, though,’ he mused aloud, as if he had already accepted the commission. ‘Only rapid manoeuvre could make up for numbers if it comes to a fight. We should need to bustle troops from one end of Chintal to the other.’
‘Then it seems doubly suited to a young head.’
‘Positions can come early in India, Mr Selden always said — in the military as well as the civil. Your own brother has great responsibility, and the collector.’
‘Positions come early, often as not,’ she smiled, ‘because men die younger or take their fortunes early and go to Cheltenham!’
Hervey made a sort of resigned shrug, and smiled too. Emma Lucie was no mere Madras hostess.
‘So shall you accept the offer? Mr Somervile told me the rajah would not conclude a treaty unless you were to have the command.’
Hervey took off his hat and wiped his forehead again. ‘As I was saying, Miss Lucie, my first duty is to the Duke of Wellington.’
She tilted her head.
No — it would not do. He had better place his trust entirely in his own judgement or else speak now to this woman who had, it seemed, wits, an understanding of the country and discretion. ‘Miss Lucie, I must speak straight with you—’
‘Speak that or not at all!’
‘Yes, I am sorry. In truth, my mission here is more to do with the nizam than the lance.’
She drew back, as if suspecting some treachery.
‘No, don’t misunderstand me, madam,’ he assured her hastily. ‘The duke has need of knowing — and I beg you do not ask me why — how faithful and effective an ally the nizam might be in any future scheme of the Company’s. You will see, therefore, that if I take this command — albeit for a short time until the rajah’s confidence is won by the Company’s nomination, a Colonel Forster — I may find myself set against the very man I am meant to be treating with.’
She thought awhile before replying. ‘I see your dilemma,’ she conceded. ‘But why are you here in Chintal? Is it merely to reacquaint yourself with Mr Selden?’
‘I beg you do not press me for an answer there either. I may assure you there is nothing dishonourable in it.’
‘Oh, Captain Hervey! I did not suppose you capable of a dishonourable thing if your life depended on it!’
‘I’m obliged, madam. And the more so for your hearing me now.’
‘I do know a little about Company affairs,’ she began tentatively. ‘One is not always obliged to leave the table as the more interesting talk of an evening begins. You spoke of things coming to a fight, needing more horse than you have. But I thought the very presence of a subsidiary force would be enough to deter the nizam from any adventure. For those are the conditions under which his own treaty of alliance is concluded, surely?’
She was right. She knew exactly how the subsidiary alliance system worked. ‘I am certain the nizam would be deterred — yes. But not the Pindarees, and it seems there may be some surrogation on the part of Haidarabad.’
She appeared to be contemplating the distinction.
‘And what place do the rajah’s soldiers have in your command?’
That, he was not sure. He knew it was the rajah’s wish that he should also take command of his regiments, for since the mutiny there was little confidence in their loyalty, except the sowars and Rajpoots. But he was less inclined to take it. ‘Its troubles are best dealt with from within.’
‘Is there any danger from within?’
He was unsure of her meaning.
‘Do you not think that until the cause of the mutiny is established—’
‘Oh, but it has been established,’ he replied confidently. ‘The rajah explained last night — the withholding of batta, the sepoys’ allowances?’
‘Yes, yes, that much I am aware of, Captain Hervey, but to what purpose was the money misappropriated — and by whom?’
He had never been inclined to underestimate Emma Lucie, but he was surprised nevertheless by her inclination to question. ‘I think it widely known that an official called Kunal Verma, the dewan, appropriated the money. Mr Selden, at least, is satisfied of his guilt.’
‘His sole guilt?’
He made no reply.
‘You had not considered the possibility that Mr Selden himself might somehow be implicated?’ she said, her eyebrows arching.
‘In no manner, madam!’ The suggestion was outrageous.
‘Captain Hervey, I have been in Chintal but a short time, and yet I have heard whispers—’
‘You may always hear whispers. I have shared too many billets in Spain with Selden to believe him capable of anything so base!’
Emma Lucie arched her eyebrows again and waved away a persistent hornet. ‘And the raj kumari?’
He was just as astounded. ‘Why should the raj kumari rob her father’s own sepoys?’
‘Ah,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Now at least you are considering motives. Why, indeed, should she do so? But the material point is that someone must have been in league with Kunal Verma — or else his death was a most curious concurrence.’
Hervey had to concede her point. ‘Miss Lucie, you have been here scarcely one whole day. The suggestion that the raj kumari—’
‘I have not met the lady,’ she agreed, ‘and my knowledge of affairs is, I admit, principally that of the rajah’s table last night, but I hear such whispers against her — beginning even on the Godavari. More, certainly, than against Mr Selden.’
‘And of whom else have you heard accusations?’ he asked, after a moment’s contemplation.
‘No-one,’ she replied. ‘Is that not, perhaps, indicative?’
He confided that he had earlier suspected the white officers — perhaps even the Germans, for they had escaped the mutiny. And, indeed, Captain Steuben’s death had been without adequate witnesses.
She took off her hat and fanned herself for a few moments. ‘Strangely enough, Captain Hervey, you are the first King’s officer I have known. I have met one or two, yes, but I don’t believe I have ever spoken more than formalities. I will not say that Company officers are without loyalty, for they are fiercely loyal to their sepoys often enough.’ She spoke with apparent authority. ‘But in the end they serve a commercial enterprise, and they see most things in terms of the dividends which accrue to them. Were you a Company officer your decision would be a simple case of bookkeeping.’
He smiled. ‘Well, I am gratified you see the irreconcilability of it.’
‘Irreconcilable?’ She was surprised. ‘Not at all. If you accept the position under the Company’s auspices, you and the nizam share an interest — you as a servant, he as a declared ally. There can be no subsequent difficulty there. If you were to take command of the rajah’s forces too, then that would be a different matter — do you not see?’
It seemed so simple. He wondered if Philip Lucie’s advancement in the Madras council was entirely on his own merits: his sister must have been of singular influence. But he was becoming restless with the heat, as well the debate. He stood up, saying he had troubled her long enough. ‘Shall we walk to the stables and see the Arab foal? It’s as white as snow — if you remember what t
hat is.’
‘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 ow
n, 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.
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