Raktambar was not used to the dirt, the direct heat of the sun, the proximity of horses and camels, the long marches, the snatched poor-quality meals, water from a different well or stream. The outdoors was anathema to him. He despised the jungle, having known only well-ordered gardens. Muddy streams had replaced his marble fountains which sprayed crystal waters. He now slept on the grubby ground in a tent, whereas before he had known a charpoy in a cool room swept clean every day by palace servants. In fact, this work he had been given, to protect this Englishman, was a living hell to him and it was no wonder he hoped the man would breathe his last.
‘I’m sorry, but I doubt the lieutenant will die, Raktambar. I know it’s very disappointing for you, but there it is. You never know, he may take a turn for the worse very soon. These diseases have a habit of revisiting us pale weak-bodied creatures and finishing us off later. You might have to delay just a little longer before you get married, but it will be all that much sweeter for the wait. Now, I have work to do . . .’
He stepped around the Rajput, leaving the man staring off into the jungle.
Back in camp, for the first time King laid out on a makeshift table all the instruments of his profession. They were of course in prime condition, since he had lovingly oiled, polished and kept them so. Ibhanan of the elephant face had assisted him in this task. Both men were in a state of joy, knowing they now had time to do the work in which they took pleasure. The bright chains were out, the men in a state of anticipation.
Sajan, sent away from the lieutenant’s tent by Gwilliams with the instructions to ‘play some games, boy’ – something the child had not done since the day he had been old enough to pull the cord of a punkah – arrived at the table with round eyes.
‘All your gold, sahib!’ said Sajan in a tone filled with awe. ‘You are a very rich man.’
‘Your English improves by the day,’ King said, approvingly. ‘Ibhanan, the young learn so quickly, don’t they? I wish my Hindi was coming on as fast.’
Sajan reached up and stroked one of the shining brass chronometers.
‘So much gold,’ he said. ‘So much riches.’
King saw a danger in this. He said sternly to the boy, ‘You mustn’t keep calling it that, baba,’ using a fond word for a child. ‘We’ll have dacoits, badmashes and Goojurs queuing up to steal my instruments. They’re not made of gold. They’re made of brass – the same as the metal used to make Ibhanan’s washbasin. Do you understand?’
‘It shines like gold.’
‘So does Ibhanan’s basin.’
‘Yes, sahib, but Ibhanan’s chillumchee is just one piece. Your treasures have many pieces and much magic in them.’
King saw a way out. ‘Yes, they’re real and proper magic, and they will destroy any man who does not know their ways. Inside each of them is an evil djinn and a good genie. If they are stolen, the evil djinn will turn the instruments into monsters, which will up and eat the thief.’
Sajan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think you tell a lie, sahib.’
‘Look what happened to Sitakanta. Did he return after stealing my instruments? No, he was eaten by that one there.’ King pointed to the sextant. ‘It swallowed him whole and spat his bones and teeth on to the ground.’
Sajan eyes shot to the device in question.
‘It is not possible, sahib. It is too small.’
‘It grows, to an enormous size,’ King’s eyes climbed up the sky, knowing the boy’s eyes were following, ‘then like a giant metal crab, it leaps on its victim and devours it, crunching it to pulp.’
‘You said it spitted out the bones and teeth.’
‘In splinters and bits and pieces. Now, if you are very good, I’ll allow you to polish my magical instruments. The bad djinn will allow you to do this, without harming you, because he likes his shell to be bright and sparkling like new. See that soft cloth over there? Fetch it and rub the casing of this solar compass with it until you can see the sun inside the metal. If you rub hard enough the good genie will reward you with an anna.’
Sajan’s disbelief was faltering. ‘Will I see the good genie, sahib? Will he appear?’
‘The good genie, like the bad djinn, is invisible. He visits you when you least expect him. My guess is he will leave the anna under your pillow tonight. That’s what he does for me or Ibhanan, usually, when we polish the clock. Later still, when I have time, I’ll show you how to use the sun compass properly, with the sextant that devoured Sitakanta, and you’ll get to know how to work the magic of the stars. Would you like that?’
‘Yes, after I get the anna,’ replied the child, prioritizing. ‘Then will I wish to know the work of the sextant.’
Sajan took the cloth and then gingerly began rubbing the casing of the solar compass, without lifting it up. He would do this for hours if required now. His years as a punkah-wallah had inured him to the boredom of tasks which by their nature were repetitive and dull. Yet he still had a lively mind, which the Europeans were further enlivening with stories and information, not necessarily for any philanthropic reasons, but because they found the boy entertaining. He was like the gardener’s lad on a British estate: simply there, around and about, without having any real duties. Thus he wandered from one person to another, asking questions, helping in a childlike way, and learning quickly. They taught him things because it amused them to see how quickly he grasped them and repeated the words or tasks. He came out with such delightful quips. The adults retold them to one another, like jokes, or rather more like a grandfather quoting an amusing grandchild.
By midday, Ibhanan and King were measuring the elevations of the hills, using the differential method of levelling. Ibhanan had charge of a wooden levelling rod, marked in numbers with graduations. He took it and held it on a point of assumed elevation. King, holding a telescopic device fitted with a spirit level, sighted on the rod. The line of sight on Ibhanan’s rod established for him the relative elevation of the telescope. Ibhanan then moved the rod to other positions for similar readings, thus establishing the difference between the separate points. King was also teaching Ibhanan how to use the solar compass – which required no needle, relying on the position of the sun to give them their compass points.
The pair were as happy as they could be and soon the angle instruments came out, the chains were used (and where they could not be employed, the perambulators) and vertical and horizontal measurements flowed on to the pages of Sergeant King’s notebooks.
In the evenings, he sat at a table working out his calculations by lamplight, with Ibhanan close by his elbow, assisting him. This was how he had imagined it would be, when he was stuck in those miserable garrison towns and country billets back in England. This was what life was supposed to be about, charting the unknown – or failing that the inaccurate known – in a fascinating foreign land ripe for pen and coloured inks. There, laying down those wonderful symbols and marks which told men where they were, what was around and about them, and how to get to some other distant place. Writing exotic sentences such as, A high ridge separates the Suthij from the Indus and making an art, a beautiful representation of the landscape on paper, out of the science of mathematics and measurements.
When the night was clear, which most of them were, the stars came out in their shining millions. King had never seen such encrusted heavens, such a mass of glistering stars. He was absolutely lost in the wonder of it all, like a child seeing them for the first time. However he was not too awestruck by their beauty to use them for his purposes. Pouring mercury from a metal-encased bottle into a dish, thus manufacturing an artificial horizon, he used the level reflecting surface to calculate the angular altitudes of the stars, determining latitude, timing his observations with one of the chronometers for absolute accuracy. His heart was full. Here the work he loved went hand in hand with the splendour and magnificence of celestial lights.
To give him his due, Gwilliams left King to his work during the lieutenant’s illness. The corporal didn’t mind supervising such onerous
tasks as digging the latrines, gathering wood, fetching water, and all those other chores necessary in a camp. Gwilliams did a lot of the cooking too, mostly because he didn’t like spicy food, but partly because he enjoyed the task. King disliked cooking intensely, though he too was not used to some of the spicy food the Indians prepared, so was grateful for the dishes Gwilliams put before him. The lieutenant, on the other hand, had grown to love curry. But then, thought King, look where he was now – lying on his sick bed.
King knew that Gwilliams did not like him much. But then the sergeant suspected that the corporal did not like anyone very much and would have been astonished to find that Gwilliams had even been fond of his own mother. The corporal often surprised King with the depth of his learning, though it was delivered in that slow drawl which grated on King’s nerves much the same as a West Country accent did. Apparently, according to Lieutenant Crossman, the American had been raised by a preacher who had an extensive library which Gwilliams had digested book by book.
But there was also a tiresome corner to Gwilliams’ nature. He tended to brag about being on the American frontier and quote ‘famous’ men King had never heard of. The sergeant was not interested in people like a Mr Wells or a Mr Fargo, or anyone from the other side of the Atlantic unless they had something to do with mapmaking. Gwilliams had mentioned Mason and Dixon once, but only in relation to a ‘line’ which ran east-west between two states, the inhabitants of which Gwilliams had shaved to a man, apparently.
But there had been no vital discussion on the profession of these men. The fact that George Washington himself had been a surveyor did not seem to arouse any patriotic fervour in Gwilliams. And when told that Thomas Jefferson’s father had produced an authoritative map of the southern colonies, Gwilliams simply made a farting noise with his mouth and said, ‘Jefferson sided with that Frenchie General Napoleon aginst you Brits. How about that then?’ When King, whose knowledge of American politics was zero, later mentioned this to Crossman, the lieutenant told him that Jefferson had not actually supported Napoleon but had advocated neutrality during the Napoleonic Wars, which was a different kettle of fish entirely. But it was Lewis and Clark who were the sergeant’s real heroes from the New World. Adventurers, explorers, like himself he thought, who, though not refined mappers, went on journeys and voyages of discovery down rivers, over lakes, through wilderness plains and mountain ranges, taking astronomical observations and plotting their positions as they went. Backwoodsmen like Davy Crockett, and Jim Bowie – Gwilliams’ heroes – left the sergeant cold. What did they ever do to understand the world?
‘Do you think we did good work today, sahib?’ asked Ibhanan after several blissful days. ‘That nuddy, it was not easy for following.’
‘We did excellent work. The lieutenant will be pleased with us, once he’s back on his feet again.’ King had a flash of conscience as he remembered he had not called in all day to see how Crossman was faring. ‘I shall speak with the corporal in a minute, to find out how he is.’
‘The lieutenant is lucky to have a caring soul such as yourself, sahib, for his sergeant. Many sergeants do not like their officers and wish them ill. I know this. I have seen it.’
‘Yeeeess – well, I’m . . . Ah, here’s Corporal Gwilliams now.’
‘His lordship wants to see ya,’ said Gwilliams with a wicked smile. ‘Says to go immediate.’
‘Yes, thank you, Corporal,’ replied King, not looking at the messenger, ‘I’m a little busy at the present, but . . .’
‘I’d go now if I was you, Sergeant. He ain’t in the mood for waiting. He didn’t even want a manipulation today.’
Unable to wipe the glow of pleasure from his face, King finally confronted a rapidly mending lieutenant. Crossman looked thin and wasted, with a very wan complexion and pale-looking eyes, but his faculties had at last left the realms of fancy and were back within the strong fences of reality. Weak and still unable to raise himself beyond a sitting position, the lieutenant glared at his second-in-command.
He said in a hoarse voice, ‘I’m still unsure whether or not to have you flogged.’
It was a sharp reminder that Crossman could do this to him. He could order such punishment. The lieutenant had the power to order a hundred lashes. He could even hang him if the crime was judged awful enough to warrant it, so long as the right paperwork was done and the right procedures were followed. Lieutenant Jack Crossman was his commanding officer, the senior rank on this assignment. He was captain of the caravan: a ship which across sailed the land.
‘I did what I thought best for the expedition,’ replied King.
‘You did what you damn well wanted to do, that’s what you did.’
This time the sergeant made no reply. He was a good manager of people and knew when not to speak. His silence allowed the lieutenant the idea that his sergeant accepted the rebuke, without actually giving the officer the words to write down in any report. He remained silent was far less damning than He agreed that he had been in the wrong. King knew he could always argue later that the lieutenant was still far from rational when he was questioned and he thought it best to humour the officer.
They stared at one another for a short while, during which Crossman obviously realized that everything had been said on the subject, unless he was prepared to take disciplinary action. It was clear to both men that since Crossman had been ill to the point of having delusions, the edges were very fuzzy. The officer could take action on his own, without recourse to higher authority, but King knew that the lieutenant was a fair man. If there was a question that things were not clear cut, he would not take disciplinary action. Once Crossman had fallen too ill to command, of course, the decisions had become the sergeant’s. King could with all conscience and right countermand any order previously given once he was the commander, especially those orders he considered had been issued during a wild fever.
The hollow-eyed and ravaged-looking lieutenant waved his good hand.
‘We’ll take it no further,’ he said, ‘but let me say I’m very disappointed in you, Sergeant. Very disappointed.’
King was quietly relieved. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘No you’re not,’ came back the lieutenant with a little more fire in his tone. ‘You’re a self-satisfied, jumped-up little prig, who thinks the whole world revolves around your own interests.’
‘If you say so, sir, though I should have to disagree.’
‘You’re not permitted to disagree. I’m your commanding officer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get out of my damn sight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sajan was waiting outside the tent. That morning King had been showing the boy the largest chain measure, taking the shiny metal link-bars from the custom-made hardwood box and laying them out on the ground. There was a hundred feet of blistered steel consisting of forty-two-and-a-half feet links. The steel bars could have been made from silver as far as Sajan was concerned. He was wide-eyed with wonder at being allowed to touch such a treasured object. Now, though, obviously having heard the raised voices coming from within, he seemed concerned for the sergeant. King ruffled his hair as he passed. The boy turned and trotted beside him.
‘Our master is very angry with you, sahib?’
‘Yes, our master is definitely very angry with me, Sajan – but he’ll come round, given a little time.’
‘He will throw away our maps.’
‘No, no he won’t do that. But we mustn’t mention maps for a little while, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Today you will show me how to do the sextant?’
King stopped and smiled down at the eager face. Yes, here was a willing disciple, one who had taken to mapmaking as if it were his chosen calling. He had been instructing the child on the use of the instruments. One day soon this small boy would be a man full grown and perhaps be the first mapmaker to enter Chinese Tartary to gather the facts and figures on the Tibetan mountains? If King couldn’t do it, one of his follow
ers might yet be able to. Dress Sajan as a Buddhist monk and send him in with a measuring wheel disguised as a prayer wheel, a rosary to use as an abacus and a begging bowl in which to put his reflective mercury in order to carry out astronomical calculations. King’s heart beat faster when he thought of it.
At the present time, and for the foreseeable future, the Chinese emperor’s edict held sway – No Mughal, Hindustani, Pathan or firinghi shall be admitted into Tibet on pain of death. Nepal too, was a land forbidden to foreigners. Oh, what a great achievement if Sajan were the first to calculate the true height of the mountain which the British had called Peak XV up until last year, when it was renamed ‘Everest’ after Farrier King’s hero, George. An astute Indian surveyor, Radhanath Sikhdar, had calculated the height of this great mountain from readings taken at six stations on the plains, but the measurement was not accurate of course.
If he were one day to go into the forbidden zone, Sajan would have to risk his life, for he was a Hindustani and therefore subject to the emperor’s edict. But with the appropriate disguise who would know his identity? Surely the grown Sajan would realize that the risk was worth the ultimate prize?
‘Yes, I’ll show you how to use the sextant, if the officer isn’t up and about by then. You must come to me at noon, Sajan.’
‘I will, Sergeant-sahib,’ said the boy, happily. ‘Noon.’
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Brothers of the Blade Page 16
