“You mean we ain’t seen nothin’ yet?”
“Yes, dear: but I do think you should try to express yourself the way you were brought up to in Boston and not as though you were born and raised somewhere west of St. Joe.”
“Don’t worry, Mother dear: when it comes time to meet the British Resident, why, I’ll behave like I just walked in right off Beacon Hill itself.”
“Believe me, I’ll look forward to that.”
*
The Resident heard the equipage coming up the drive, glanced through the window and returned his attention to his desk. Five minutes later Captain Thorn entered his office with a more than usually bemused look on his beefy face, holding a visiting card.
“There’s a caller asking to see you, sir.”
“Didn’t you tell him to make an appointment?”
“Yes, sir, but I thought you’d care to see him now.”
“Why?”
“Well, sir, he’s an American.”
The Resident looked up sharply and frowned. “An American?”
“A banker, sir.” He proffered the card.
“Henry S. Whittaker.” There was the name of a banking house and a Boston address. “What does he want?”
“To pay his respects to you, sir. It seems he’s just arrived from Calcutta with his wife and daughter.”
“What sort of a fellow is he?”
“Impossible to tell from the way he speaks, sir. I’ve never met an American before. He seems decently spoken, but he talks through his nose.”
“They all do, Thorn. I’ve made the acquaintance of several in London. Well, I suppose you’d better show him in.”
Damned colonial, Carter thought. The fact that America was in fact an ex-colony only made him more resentful of this intrusion. But he found himself rising to his feet with a certain astonishment at the tall, well-dressed figure that strode in with a cordial smile and outstretched hand.
“Very good of you to receive me without an appointment, Mr. Resident, sir.”
He had never been called Mr. Resident, let alone Mr. Resident, sir. It mollified him for having to look up so many inches.
“Well, not many of my callers have come as far as you, Mr. Whittaker. A very long voyage. And I know how tedious the journey can be from Calcutta.”
“I appreciate your consideration, sir.”
“Pray make yourself comfortable. I understand you have your wife and daughter with you.”
“Yes, sir. But they are no tenderfeet when it comes to travelling by wagon train...”
The Resident looked confused. “Tenderfeet, Mr. Whittaker?”
“Novices, I should have said. Oh... thank you... your very good health... why, this is an excellent wine, Mr. Resident.”
“I am glad you find it so. Pray continue, Mr. Whittaker. And, by the way, my name is Carter.”
“Well, Mr. Carter, you’re surely wondering what brings an American banker all this way; and to a British preserve...”
“Hardly a preserve. Zafarala is, as you know, an independent state.”
“Quite so. But the monopoly of trade throughout India lies in British hands.”
“Others, however, are not excluded.”
“Theoretically. But in practice, apart from France and Portugal, who hardly figure now, what other country has taken the trouble to develop any interests here?”
“Precisely. As you say, opportunities are open to those who take the trouble.”
“And I have taken the trouble, Mr. Carter.”
“Exactly so. May I ask what attracted you to India?”
“India has always interested me, Mr. Carter. I happen to be an alumnus of Yale University.”
“Excuse me if I do not immediately perceive the connection.”
“Ah! I assumed you were familiar with the history of the East India Company.”
“I think I may claim to be so, Mr. Whittaker.”
“But not with the name of Elihu Yale, evidently, the founder of my great alma mater. Old Eli was born in Boston but returned to England with his parents at the age of four. Twenty years later, in sixteen seventy-two, he came here as a servant of the East India Company. He went back to London after twenty-seven years in this country, with a fortune amassed through private trading. Our great university was founded in his name in recognition of his great gifts.”
“Of course I am aware of Yale University. And, as a Cambridge man, of Harvard: but I did not know of the connection of Yale with the Honourable Company. Nonetheless, surely there are ample opportunities for investment in the development of your own country?”
“Indeed there are. Four years ago, when our two sons had completed their studies at Yale and my daughter her schooling in Boston, I took my whole family out West to take part in the advancement of the frontiers of civilisation: if that doesn’t sound too pretentious.”
“It sounds very enterprising.”
“We were able to make a substantial contribution towards the development of our great country. Our sons acquired substantial areas of land and settled down to grow crops and breed cattle. I was able to find profitable investments for the bank’s funds. It was a hard life in all respects and it also proved to be a dangerous one. Both our sons were killed in Indian raids on their properties.”
“I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Whittaker.”
“The shock and grief of my wife and daughter were such that I decided to return immediately to Boston.”
“I can understand their feelings; and yours.”
“To return to the West was unthinkable. To remain in Boston was unwelcome. Bankers, Mr. Carter, should be pioneers, they should make their banks’ money work; and work usefully: not merely sit back and let it accumulate.”
“An admirable philosophy. So you have come to India in pursuit of further means of putting your bank’s funds to... to work.”
“That is so. And from what I was able to learn before leaving America, Zafarala is rich in natural resources.”
“British interests are not inactive here, Mr. Carter.”
“I imagine not. But there is surely room for American enterprise as well, in an independent native state.”
“Provided it does not conflict with the interests of my Government.”
“What kind of an independence is that?”
“The Nawab is absolute ruler here, of course. Totally independent. My position here is analogous to that of an ambassador. My duties include fostering all British interests. A major one is the maintenance of peace between Zafarala and its neighbours.”
“I have not come here to start another War of Independence, Mr. Resident.”
“Another American Revolution, don’t you mean, Mr. Whittaker?”
The tension between them was as taut as a yard of elastic which they were stretching from opposite ends. They both realised it would be foolish to force it to snap: Whittaker because it would prejudice his prospects of success; Carter because overt quarrels were abhorrent to diplomacy.
A sudden grin appeared on Whittaker’s face and he began to laugh. A moment later Carter’s habitually dolorous expression cracked into a forced smile and he made an effort to be agreeable as he reached for the decanter and replenished their glasses.
“Well, Whittaker, your first necessity is to get a roof over your heads. I can help you there and it shouldn’t take more than a few days to find you a house and servants and furnish it. In the meanwhile I insist that you be our guests...”
“Really, you are most kind but I cannot put you to the trouble.”
“My wife and two daughters will be delighted to have the company of your lady and your daughter. My wife has had the pleasure of meeting the American Ambassador to London and his lady. She will be very pleased to welcome you and your family.”
“It seems like an imposition.”
“Apart from our personal wishes — and I know I speak for my wife — we British have certain traditions in India, certain customs. Everyone keeps open house. Hospitality
is more than a pleasure, it is an obligation. But I assure you that in this instance it will be entirely our pleasure to entertain you.”
Pretty speeches cost nothing and the best way of combating a rival to British interests was to disarm him with friendliness.
*
Ramsey had written to the Dewan requesting permission to call on him and was awaiting an answer. He knew this would not come swiftly. In the meanwhile idleness was forced upon him. Inactivity allowed time for unwelcome thoughts. Shakuntala was never long out of his mind and he awaited word from her. He carried a calendar in his head and each passing day made him more worried about his debt to MacLean and his dwindling funds.
In the weeks since Dhala Rao had warned him that a predecessor sent by “a certain Mukkle-ain Sahib” had been tortured and murdered by the Nawab, he had thought a lot about MacLean’s lie and duplicity but it was not his nature to take fright at what had befallen someone else. He could look after himself better than most people; as he had proved in his encounters with the pirates and the Thugs. MacLean’s dishonesty aroused his anger and contempt, but no more. He had refrained from mentioning the other man whom MacLean had sent to Zafarala, to give both Thorn and the Resident the opportunity to do so. He knew that Thorn would have told him of it: for the sake of old acquaintance and because he was straight. The Resident would also have cautioned him: he was not a likeable man, but he did his duty. MacLean’s emissary must therefore have come here in secrecy, charged by MacLean to pretend to be acting entirely on his own.
He rode every morning to exercise Sikander and himself. A day or two after he had moved into his own rented bungalow, he was on his way to the maidan when he noticed that the streets, usually busy even at this hour, were deserted and an uncanny silence prevailed. There was not even a beggar or a stray dog to be seen. What was the reason for this moribund atmosphere and air of fear? Perhaps the Nawab had sent a press gang into the streets to drag reluctant conscripts into his Army. Perhaps his tax-gatherers were on the rampage. Perhaps there was a public execution outside the jail and the townspeople had been ordered to gather there. Whatever it was, it was eerie.
He rounded a corner and could see, at the far end of the road, the grassy maidan.
A few yards ahead of him a body lay in a smear of blood. Sikander tossed his head at the smell and whinnied. Ramsey drew rein and looked down. It was a young man and his skull had been smashed in, his body trampled. Looking around he could see frightened faces peering from windows and around doors. He called out to ask what had happened, but there was no answer.
He rode on. Against the wall of a baniya’s shop, the body of a young woman sprawled, the head battered, the body heavily trampled on. Sikander snorted and skittered away with rapid steps.
A voice cried “Sahib! Look there.”
Ramsey saw a man on the flat roof of a low building, pointing back the way he had come. He heard galloping hooves.
A young woman on a bay horse came headlong towards him. He recognised her at once. Behind her galloped another horse, a terrified chestnut, rolling its eyes, foam flying from its mouth. He recognised its rider also. She had slipped in her saddle and grabbed its mane with one hand while she hauled at the reins with the other, trying to turn it down an alleyway.
Last, swinging into view from a side street, dust billowing from its enormous hooves, skidding as it leaned into a turn, sparks flying from its shoes when they struck stones lying in the roadway, came a huge grey. Its mane flew wildly, its tail streamed in the wind of its wild gallop. Its ears lay wickedly flat to its great, ugly head, its teeth were bared and saliva frothed from its jaws. It had neither saddle nor bridle and it was overtaking the others.
The man on the roof had been joined by several more. Together they shouted “The man-killer, Sahib.”
Ruth, urging the bay with voice, knee and whip, glanced back towards her mother. She had seen the sais, who always accompanied them, tumble off his mount when it pecked in a deep puddle. She had seen the massive grey shorten its stride, and, as the groom picked himself up, deliver a kick that sent him flying through the air to slam against the side of a house. The grey had then pounded him with all four feet. She thought she had reached the apogee of terror in the haunted bungalow, but at this moment she felt drained of every last particle of courage and hope, limp and so frightened that she was panting as though she had run up a steep hill. She was terrified for her mother even more than for herself.
Constance’s horse would not answer the reins. She had pulled its head around to one side as it galloped on awkwardly. Its pace slowed. The grey thundered past, took a mighty leap and crashed down on the quarters of the sais’s rider-less horse.
It went down on its knees. The grey over-ran it, whirled round on its haunches, lowered its head and bit its victim in the neck, then reared about again and lashed out with its hind hooves. Blood and brains oozed into the roadway. The grey set off in pursuit of the two women once more.
Looking to her front again, Ruth saw a horseman cantering towards them. Again Constance tried to guide her horse into a side turning and her sharp tug on the rein upset its balance. Its head twisted to its nearside shoulder and the natural consequence was that it lost its stride and pitched onto its offside one.
Ruth heard the chestnut crash to the ground, turned to look back, and saw her mother flung over its head as it rolled in the dust. She reigned back, brought her mount up on its quarters and spun it around to go back to her mother’s aid.
She heard Ramsey’s remembered voice call “Stay there” as he put spurs to his big roan and sent it leaping directly at the maddened grey.
Sikander’s shoulder charged into the grey and threw it against a shop door, which burst open. With an enraged whinny the grey horse launched itself at Sikander, teeth snapping. Ramsey turned Sikander sharply. The grey brushed past, then caught sight of Ruth, whose horse had slowed to a trot as she neared the place where Constance was scrambling to her feet. It charged straight at her. Her chestnut staggered. Before it could recover, the grey dealt it a kick in its offside ribs. It lurched and tipped Ruth from the saddle. She clung to the reins but her horse took off in a terror-stricken canter, dragging her along the ground.
Ramsey shouted “Let go” and she released the reins.
The grey reared and was about to come down on her with its fore hooves when Ramsey put Sikander straight at it in a flying leap. Sikander’s chest rammed it in the withers. The grey overbalanced and crashed onto its side. As it rolled onto its back it kicked with all four hooves but they met only empty air.
Ruth had reached Constance and they clung together, cowering against a shop front. Constance’s horse had picked itself up and set off after Ruth’s.
The grey rolled right around and onto its feet in a trice. It leaped at Sikander, teeth bared, its head darting at Ramsey’s leg. He lashed it across the neck with his riding crop. It swerved away, neighing with rage and pain. It took a mighty jump at the two women and once more Ramsey sent Sikander slamming into it: this time into its hindquarters, slewing it around in the instant that it reared to smash down on them, so that it had to spring forward with all its force in order to try to regain its balance. The great bound carried it head-first into the wall against which Ruth and her mother were crouching. It stunned itself and fell in a heap, snorting and twitching.
“Quick!” Ramsey reached down a hand and helped Constance, with Ruth pushing her, to mount behind him, where she clung with both arms about his waist. He heaved at Ruth’s arm as she jumped and lay across Sikander’s withers, gasping for breath. The grey horse lay semi-conscious, legs working ineffectually. Sikander cantered heavily away.
Ramsey heard more horses. He turned to look past Constance. A squad of the Nawab’s cavalry had come on the scene at the gallop and now stood surrounding the fallen horse. He reined to a halt and turned Sikander around. Troopers with ropes were securing the grey.
One of them, wearing the insignia of a dafadar, a sergeant of horse, trotted
up and saluted.
“Thank you, Sahib. This is Khaufnak, The Dreaded One. He is the Nawab’s favourite. It would have gone hard with us if he had come to any harm.”
“How did he escape?”
“I am personally responsible for grooming him, Sahib. Two men have to hold him. And this morning, he had also to be shod. He killed one of my troopers, broke free from the other, kicked down the wicket gate and bolted. He has done it before.”
“He is mad. You should shoot him.”
“And be roasted to death over a slow fire? The Nawab is very proud of Khaufnak.”
Ruth meanwhile had slid to the ground. She helped her mother down. Ramsey dismounted.
Constance smiled at him. “How can we ever thank you enough, Mr. Ramsey?”
“I congratulate you both on your horsemanship.”
“Horsewomanship.”
“Really, Ruth, where are your manners? I apologise for my daughter.”
“May I see you back to the Residency?”
“Oh, you know we are staying there?”
“With barely a score of Euro... white people in the whole of Zafarala, Mrs. Whittaker, new arrivals are conspicuous.”
“We are moving into our own place tomorrow. You must come and dine.”
Ruth said “This is too much, really! What a country, where folks can’t set foot outside without being attacked by crazy horses.”
Ramsey, with pretended gravity, asked “Did you happen to meet anyone, when you set out, who was carrying a new pot or a bundle of firewood? A lame man, a leper, two men having a quarrel?” They were both looking at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. “A paria... that is, an untouchable... if you know how to recognise one? A widow?”
Constance, with a slight frown, said “Why do you ask?”
Ramsey smiled. “According to Hindus, any of those would bring you bad luck and account for your meeting the mad horse.”
Ruth sounded exasperated. “Crazy country.”
*
A mounted orderly in the livery of the Nawab’s household delivered a letter to Ramsey’s bungalow later that morning.
Sher Mahommed Khan took it to Ramsey in his big, horny hand. Useless to try to get it into his head that letters and cards should be politely presented on a tray.
A Good Soldier Page 21
