A Good Soldier

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  The Resident despatched a copy of the deposition in each language to the Governor General, with an explanatory letter.

  “I fancy this will mean an abrupt and permanent departure from India for MacLean and his family,” the Resident said; with surprising relish, considering his earlier praise of the merchant. Not so surprising really, Ramsey reflected, if one took into account that the Resident would be credited with the unmasking of a rogue who had deceived Calcutta society and the business community for a decade.

  Whittaker told Ramsey: “This effectively wipes out any debt you feel you owe that bastard. He won’t be in the country, to receive it, anyway.”

  “I don’t intend to pay for the goods destroyed in the fire. But I have already sent him a draft for what I have managed to sell. And I shall eventually pay for the goods lost en route here. His dishonesty does not exempt me from my given word. He instigated the fire in my go-down, but he did not bribe the pirates or the Thugs who stole his goods in my care.”

  Whittaker shook his head in wonder. “My God!”

  Ruth said that Hugh looked romantic with his arm in a sling.

  *

  In the morning Ghulam Kasim, with attendant retainers, arrived at Ramsey’s bungalow.

  “I have come to assure you that I knew nothing of Anwar Ali’s crimes against you.”

  “Where did you learn of them, then?”

  “Word reached me last night of your skirmish at his house, and that you had abducted him. I have just been to see the Dewan. He told me the whole story.”

  “I am sorry that your friend turned out to be so dishonourable and a criminal.”

  “I gave him my support against the tax-gatherer, not because he was a friend of mine but because all revenue-farmers are jackals and my support goes to anyone bold enough to defy the Nawab, who is a corrupt man, a worthless ruler and should not be on the gaddi. It is I who should rule Zafarala. If there is any dispute about that, for the law is unjust but on his side, nobody can justly deny my right to succeed him instead of that depraved, spineless son of his.”

  “We are bhai band, of the same brotherhood, thou and I, Ghulam Kasim. Our fathers fought side by side, as our grandfathers did in the old wars when Zafarala was my country’s ally against the Sikhs and the Mahrattas. I have heard my father say that you were more worthy than your cousin to rule here. But I must stand aside from these matters. If, as you say, the people are in the mood to rebel and overthrow the Nawab, it is up to you to make what you can of it if it happens.”

  “When it happens. And when it does, and I am in power, your future here is assured. I will make you Commander-in-Chief. You may have whatever concessions you desire: land... commerce... name it. What do you desire? What will satisfy you? How much gold, how many mohurs? Fifty lakhs? A crore? It can be yours. It shall be yours if you will help me to take what, under any just law, would be mine already.”

  “You deny Muslim law?”

  “In the matter of hereditary accession to power, yes. It is a law made by the Imams and mullahs, not by Allah. Hugh-ji, help me to obtain justice for myself. Your help will be worth a hundred other men’s... a regiment... you will never regret it.”

  “Brother, you are flattering and very generous. But I make my own fortune.”

  Ghulam Kasim looked grim and his eyes were sad. What a good fellow he is, thought Ramsey. He must think me a prig.

  “You had better hurry, then, Hugh. The Nawab came storming in with a look of doom when I was with the Dewan. Something must have gone badly amiss on the frontier. There could be turmoil in Zafarala. Chaos that will take years to settle.”

  *

  A messenger dismounted from his tired horse in front of Dr. Bond’s bungalow and ran up the steps.

  “I come with a letter from the Nawabzada, who is at the fort at Girbad. I have had but four hours’ sleep and exhausted six horses to get here as fast as possible.”

  The letter was written in the round, childish hand that the Nawabzada had learned from Miss Simpson, Mr. O’Hara and Mr. Evans. It was couched in a style at once stilted and immature.

  Dr. Bond read: “I am very sick... cannot retain food in my stomach... no appetite... severe pains... returning to Nekshahr immediately by carriage... only your esteemed self can succour me... beg you to leave at once and meet me on the road... save my life.” The letter concluded: “I have written also to my father and the letter will be delivered after you have left.”

  The appeal put him in a dilemma. The position of all foreigners in a native state was too precarious to risk displeasing the ruler. Nor could he put the Resident in an equivocal situation. He told the courier to wait and went at once to the Residency.

  When Carter had read the letter he sat in thought for a while, looking worried.

  “I think a diplomatic compromise is called for. It is right for you to hasten to this wretched youth, but we cannot act without the Nawab’s knowledge. If you will depart without delay, I shall report the matter to the Nawab in advance of his receiving the Nawabzada’s letter. Plainly, the Nawabzada fears that his father will be offended by his departure from Girbad. That is why he told the courier not to deliver his letter at the palace until four hours after your departure. He must fear that the Nawab would send a messenger after you to order you to return.”

  It was after the Resident had called at the palace to give the information, that the Nawab had burst in on the Dewan, raging, while Ghulam Kasim was there.

  He had ended his tirade, after ordering Ghulam Kasim to leave, by saying “Make all preparations for me to leave for Girbad the day after tomorrow. Evidently my son has no stomach for the duty I sent him to carry out. I shall attend to it myself.”

  “You will inform Major Owthwaite Sahib that you are going to Girbad?”

  “No. He is not to know until he returns here.”

  “And the grand review of your troops?”

  “When he arrives, tell him it is cancelled. But he is not to set out for the frontier a day early on that account. The troops are to have a day’s rest. It is essential for them to arrive exactly on the date I have ordered, not before.”

  Two hours after Dr. Bond had started for Girbad he was overtaken by a trooper of the Nawab’s bodyguard, with a message written by Mr. Evans ordering him, in the name of the Nawab, to return immediately.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Nawab’s courtiers knew and feared the mood that fell upon him after he had received the letter from his Heir Apparent. It was at these times that the headsman sharpened his axe and those who had fallen from favour feared for their lives.

  Alone with the Dewan, he strode up and down, ranting and uttering threats. “That son of mine fills me with shame... pusillanimous... disobedient...”

  “He would not return or seek treatment from the English doctor unless he were very ill, Your Highness.”

  “And it is his cowardly weakness that has driven him into an illness.”

  “Surely he was not afraid of being in Girbad? The fort is strongly enough defended...”

  “No, it is because he is too squeamish...” The Nawab abruptly fell silent.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “It doesn’t matter. And that whining idiot of a Chamberlain running off like that... I was going to get rid of him anyway... but it is my prerogative to dismiss him, not his to resign... I have a good mind to have that son of a pig, Anwar Ali, hauled up from the dungeons and publicly beheaded... a lesson to everyone...”

  “But you gave your word that you would spare his life.”

  “Then I will have him executed in his cell and his body left there to rot... no one will know... the Resident has no right to enquire...”

  “Dr. Bond Sahib will be coming to see him. You gave your word that he could attend him.”

  “Are you trying to thwart me? I will not be told what I can and cannot do...”

  “Your Highness needs diversion to calm your mind. Have you forgotten... lost interest in... Shakuntala?�
��

  The Dewan had no fears for his own life, but he detested and feared the Nawab’s destructive moods as much as anyone. They created all manner of troubles for him.

  The Nawab’s expression changed. “By Allah, you are right. I had not forgotten her. Certainly not lost interest in her. I was keeping her as a treat in store until this Karampur crisis is over. She is exactly the beguilement my troubled spirit needs. Have her and her troupe brought here this evening.”

  “And what of Sitabai, Lord? Shall I have her taken away, back to her own people; or elsewhere?”

  The fiery-tempered half-gypsy dancer would be a thorny problem. The Nawab did not trust gypsies: they were full of guile, they knew every poisonous plant that grew. He had lost interest in Sitabai. She would create a violent scene and upset the whole harem if he ordered her to be taken away. If he let her stay, she was quite capable of poisoning him; despite his food-tasters. She would secretly put poison in his wine or brandy while they lay together in the darkness.

  “No, Dewan-ji, do not send her away.” The Nawab looked gleeful. “I shall attend to her myself.”

  The Dewan went to his zenana. The Chief Eunuch salaamed low and backed towards the door that led to the interior, to open it for him.

  “I am going to talk to the Nawab Sahiba. Tell Sitabai that I require her presently.”

  “I shall tell her myself, Lord.”

  The Nawab, his good humour restored, strolled through the harem, stopping to speak to his women as he passed them at their various recreations. When he had spent half an hour in conversation with the Nawab Sahiba, he went to join Sitabai.

  They reclined together on a cushioned divan. She caressed him. He pressed her down under the weight of his heavy body, then deftly slid a cushion over her face and lay on it. She struggled, kicked, flailed at him with her nails: they slid off his satin garments. In a very few minutes she was suffocated. When he had removed the cushion and ensured that she was dead, he left her lying as though she had died in her sleep.

  *

  The Nawabzada swayed apathetically in the carriage which, in another few hours, would bring him to the palace. He quailed at the imminent explosion of temper and recriminations that awaited him. He had never disobeyed his father before. He had a heavy sense of guilt. He would have felt even guiltier if he had carried out his father’s wishes. How could he shrive himself of his unfilial insubordination? There would be no comfort to be had from the Imam, to whom the loss of infidel lives was no sin but a matter for rejoicing. Also the Imam would chide him for being an undutiful son; and the Imam’s wrath was more terrible, in its way, than his father’s.

  Should he confide in Ramsey Sahib? Ramsey must like him, for he had given him those fine guns and taken much trouble to show him how to use them.

  But what could Ramsey do if he told him his troubles? Nothing. He might pass the information on to the Resident, but what could he do either? It would, nonetheless, make him feel better if he told Ramsey: he wanted reassurance that he had been justified in his disobedience.

  *

  Captain Thorn, accompanied by two orderlies and a sais, with four spare mounts on leading reins, had forced the pace. He had bivouacked for only four hours during the night. They changed horses every hour.

  In another three hours he would reach Ajibnagar. It would be good to see a British regiment again. Colonel Howell would be pleased to have news of Ramsey. In an hour’s time he would halt to wash and shave and change his linen, put on a clean pair of breeches, have his boots polished, the horses groomed.

  He hoped the Resident would allow him to go up to the frontier to meet the 69th when they arrived there. What was the Nawab plotting? Why had he suddenly ordered the Nawabzada up there? The boy had never shown any inclination towards soldiering and the Nawab had always been content to leave all military matters entirely in the hands of Owthwaite.

  Every mile of the way, he had been puzzling over the Nawab’s reason for sending those convicts to Girbad. And those uniforms: their significance was totally obscure. And why bother to dress convicts in them? If they were going to be used only for manual labour, why put them into uniforms at all?

  Hunger sharpens the brain. He had eaten little since leaving Nekshahr. Four hours’ sleep had refreshed him. The sun came up, spilling its brilliance over the low hills on the horizon. With it, light filled his mind. But the Nawab’s stratagem remained insoluble.

  *

  Dr. Bond waited in a small room while Anwar Ali was fetched from the dungeons. They were left alone. The doctor began to remove the bandages before examining and dressing the wound.

  Anwar Ali talked in an undertone, first looking around to ensure that the door was firmly shut.

  “Doctor Sahib, there is something more I wish Rumgee Sahib to know, that I could not speak of in the Nawab’s presence. That is why I did not tell him of it at the Residency: I knew I would have to repeat every word here, in the Nawab’s hearing.”

  “What is on your mind? Tell me and I shall pass it on to Ramsey Sahib.”

  “Do you know, Doctor Sahib, that Rumgee Sahib brought two hundred guns — shikari weapons — from Calcutta?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “The Nawab bought them all.”

  “Why so many?”

  “What I wish Rumgee Sahib to know is that MacLean Sahib knew the Nawab would find them irresistible and want them for his soldiers. And that it would encourage him to aggression against Karampur.”

  “How would that profit MacLean Sahib?”

  “He wants the British to intervene and then to keep a military force here, as they have in Oudh. Thus they would be a powerful influence in Zafarala and might even add this state to those they have already taken over. Then MacLean could more easily have a monopoly of the trade here. As long as Zafarala is independent, even if Rumgee Sahib’s plans bear fruit, it is the Nawab who will reap the greatest benefit and who could expel Rumgee Sahib at any time he wishes.”

  “I will tell this to Ramsey Sahib.”

  “I trust he will intercede for me with the Nawab.”

  “I am sure he will.”

  *

  In the afternoon, Dr. Bond was recalled to the palace.

  The Nawab made a show of affability that hardly disguised his anger and contempt. “You see what confidence I have in you, Doctor Sahib. At the risk of offending my personal physician, I am entrusting my son to you.”

  You would be insane not to, thought Bond. Well, you are insane, but at least this indicates a glimmer of sanity.

  “I am honoured and gratified, Your Highness. It augurs well for the hospital.”

  The Nawab was unwilling to discuss the hospital. “I will leave the Nawabzada in your hands.”

  The youth looked cowed and wan. The doctor asked him to remove his upper garments and lie on a divan. Murtaza avoided his eye. He was obviously reluctant to submit to medical examination. The doctor asked him about his pains, the nausea, the loss of appetite. He received sulky answers.

  It troubled him that the Nawabzada was hiding something. Ten minutes’ palpating, listening to his heart and lungs, and questioning, left the doctor in no doubt. The sickness was a sham. There were no tender places in Murtaza’s body; there had been no nausea except, perhaps, caused by fright and worry; he had deliberately refrained from eating.

  Murtaza volunteered speech only once. “I am too sick to go back to Girbad, isn’t it?” They had been talking Urdu. The appeal in English was a pathetic plea, an attempt to enlist the doctor in his deceit.

  Bond patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Far too unwell, Nawabzada Sahib. I shall return shortly with medicines for you and I would like you to remain in bed for...”

  “Three days will be long enough.”

  “Very well. Let us say four days, to be on the safe side.” The safe side of what? the doctor asked himself.

  *

  Shakuntala had been dreading the summons from the moment of her return to her native city. S
he had prepared for it. Not only was she fearful for herself but also for the other three dancers. But when she told them of the bidding to the palace and would have explained to them the subterfuge she had in mind for the protection of them all, she refrained. Their response was the opposite to hers. They were excited and gratified. Here was the opportunity of which every dancing girl dreamed: to win the favours of the Nawab, or at least the Nawabzada. They chattered about it all day.

  The Nawab was drunk. They danced for him in the banqueting hall, where he was alone with the Dewan and his new Chamberlain, a blubbery young Muslim with close-set eyes like malicious sultanas, a long, thin, drooping moustache and clean-shaven chins.

  When the girls filed in to make obeisance, the Nawab tossed them a bag which clinked when it hit the floor at Shakuntala’s feet.

  “This, to start with, is compensation for the earnings you have lost by coming here.” He belched and hiccupped. “How much more you get depends on the pleasure you give me.” He guffawed. The girls giggled with nervous sycophancy. Shakuntala remained impassive. The musicians grinned like apes. The Nawab hunched forward, a goblet of wine in his hand.

  Never before had Shakuntala’s profession displeased her. She was a natural dancer. From the beginning of her career, her enjoyment of dancing had increased as her skill grew greater. She responded to all music. The music to which she had fitted her steps had always filled her with a joy that transcended every other except the happiness she had known first with her husband and then with Hugh Ramsey. Tonight she hated it. But she could not degrade the art she loved and respected by doing less than her best.

  The Nawab was enraptured, enchanted, swept away by the skill and beauty of them all, consumed with desire for Shakuntala.

  When the dancing was over, he dismissed the musicians and his two courtiers. He beckoned the four girls to cluster around him on the cushions. He offered them wine and popped sweetmeats into their mouths, giggling and fondling them as he did so. When he tried to put a sweet to Shakuntala’s lips she shifted away and took it from his fingers. She declined wine and drank sherbet.