“You come across them around Bangalore, and farther south,” Howard said. “Edward’s ayah has one, a gold coin. I’m told the Romans traded them for pepper.”
“Who is he, anyway, our Kóya friend?” Wauchope angled his pipe again.
“He’s a muttadar, a local headman from Rampa, the village that gives its name to the district. He holds some kind of grudge against Chendrayya, the leader of the revolt. The muttadar acts from motives of self-interest. Once satisfied on that point, his time and labor have been most zealously and indefatigably given, when he’s been sober enough.” Howard lowered his voice. “He’s also a vezzugada, a sorcerer. The Kóya know nothing of the Hindu religion. They worship deities of their own, ancient Dravidian gods, animistic gods and goddesses. Tigers, hyenas, buffalo. Sometimes the deities possess people, who are known then as the konda devata. Sacrifices are made to a dread deity called Ramaya. That hollow bamboo he’s holding supposedly contains some kind of idol, the supreme vélpu. He calls it the Lakkála Rámu, and it’s rumored to be ornamented with eyes of olivine and lapis lazuli. He won’t show it to anyone. It’s supposed to be kept in a sacred cave, a shrine near Rampa village, to placate the deity. The muttadar took it from the shrine when he fled Chendrayya and came to us. But now the deity needs it back, and is apparently becoming agitated. Our side of the bargain is to help the muttadar replace it.”
“Will you keep your promise?”
“Of course. We need to instill fear among the rebels, and confidence among those who are well-disposed toward us.”
“Quite so.”
There was a sudden commotion and a curse, and a hatch into the hold opened behind them. An indescribable smell wafted out, followed by a burly man stripped to the waist except for a luridly stained apron. He was only a few years older than the two subalterns, the same age as Sergeant O’Connell, and like O’Connell sported the long sideburns fashionable among a previous generation.
“Surgeon Walker,” Howard said, looking at the man with concern. “How goes it in the black hole?”
“Most of the men have had repeated malarious attacks, and are in a very debilitated state.” Walker spoke with the hard consonants of his birthplace, Kingston in Upper Canada, and six years at the Queen’s University in Belfast. “There are serious after consequences-enlarged spleen, anemia, partial paralysis, extreme emaciation, disorders of the stomach and bowels, and other complaints of a grave nature. Many of the men are passing through the hot stage of a febrile paroxysm, and their sufferings and distress are painful to witness.”
“That vile odor?”
“Indeed. A singular putrid efflorescence.” Walker wiped something unpleasant off his hand onto his apron. “I’m here for a breath of fresh air. Is Lieutenant Hamilton back yet?”
Howard shook his head and pulled out his fob watch. “He’s been gone a full twenty-four hours now. He doesn’t have provisions for any longer.” He turned to Wauchope. “One of the muttadar’s men informed us that Chendrayya had been seen in Rampa village about five miles north of here. I sent Hamilton out with what remains of G Company, only 22 men. It was a risk, but we’ve rarely encountered the rebels in gangs of more than 10 or 20. Until now, that is.”
“Let’s hope Hamilton doesn’t walk into that lot,” Wauchope murmured, jerking his head toward the riverbank.
Howard grunted. “I just wish he hadn’t taken the infernal Bebbie with him.”
“Who?”
“Assistant commissioner for the Central Provinces.” Howard paused, trying to control his temper. “Because government in its wisdom decided that this is a police action, all of our forays into the tribal agency are supposed to be led by a civil officer. Some are decent fellows, fine shots. Mr. Bebbie is decidedly not one of those. He gave us a lecture before we set out. How climate will always prevent this being the seat of prosperous industry or great commercial enterprise. How the Kóya are a degenerate race, sunk in the depths of ignorance and superstition. How it is his duty to teach them the value of a moral obligation, and our duty not to upbraid them with the past but to inaugurate them with a better future. His lecture was a magnificent display of language united to a grievous perversion of the facts. It failed to conceal the truth that he’s never bothered to come up here into his jurisdiction before and is permanently prostrate with fever. A more worthless specimen and perfectly useless leader of men I have not seen.”
“I’m sure Hamilton will keep him in his place,” Wauchope murmured with a smile, slouching back against the side of the boat and lighting his pipe again.
“Our muttadar is convinced that one of those men over there on the riverbank is Chendrayya, the rebel leader,” Howard said. “If so, Hamilton has been led into a vipers’ pit by Bebbie. I told Bebbie not to trust their guide, but Bebbie will not listen to God Almighty, let alone to a mere sapper subaltern.” Howard closed his eyes. Another musket ball smacked into the funnel. He opened his eyes, nodded at Sergeant O’Connell, and raised his left arm. Then, sensing a commotion on the river, he quickly peered through his glass again. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “I think I see Hamilton.” They all followed his gaze. Half an hour earlier he had ordered the steamer’s boat out into the river ready to pick up the returning party, and now they could see the boat coming around a sandy bluff at the river bend, concealed from the village. The four lascar seamen were pulling like fury against the current. In the middle was a throng of Madrasi sappers with their bayonets fixed, and the pith helmet of a British officer was visible at the stern. Behind them on the sandy bluff, loinclothed men with long matchlocks began to materialize out of the jungle and they heard cries and a ragged crackle of musketry. White smoke rose where the rebels had been firing and joined the river mist, briefly concealing both the boat and the rebels. When the smoke cleared the rebels had gone from the bluff, and Howard caught a glimpse of the last of them running along the sandbank toward the throng below the village, brandishing their matchlocks and whooping and hollering. A few moments later the boat had pulled around to the protected lee side of the steamer. There was a clatter as the men disembarked and came on deck, immediately slumping down below the railing. They reeked of sweat and sulphur, and looked exhausted. Hamilton, the last on board, made his way over to where Howard and the others were standing. He took out his Adams revolver and swung out the cylinder, dropping the empty cartridge cases. His hands were shaking, and his face was streaked with the greasy residue of gunpowder. He looked drawn, but exuberant. He was the youngest subaltern on the Madras establishment, and this was his first taste of the sharp end of soldiering.
“We were camped for the night, deep in the jungle,” he panted, squatting down as he reloaded the revolver. His voice was hoarse, and he took a few deep breaths to control it. “We were told by our guide that a gang of a hundred rebels was at a nearby village. We marched at three a.m. to surprise them at dawn. Our guide brought us out into a small clearing in front of the village, where we were spotted. He disappeared and we never saw him again. A shot was fired at us, followed by five or six in quick succession. I got the men into skirmishing order and opened fire on the rebels; they quickly retreated into the jungle. Once there, the rebels, knowing their way about, had a decided advantage on us. If only they’d stand and fight in the open, we could put down this rebellion in a week.”
“This happens every time we try to engage them,” Howard murmured to Wauchope. “Go on.”
“We were getting short on ammunition. They were trying to draw us deeper into the jungle. I decided to retreat, and after a lull they followed, keeping up a hot fire on us all the way. Sometimes they were visible as they flitted from tree to tree, and we were able to pick a few off Twice I halted the sappers and confronted the attackers with heavy fire, but they always took refuge behind trees. Altogether we expended over a thousand rounds, but we accounted for only ten of the enemy for certain. Frequently the rebels have been encountered in this way, and got off with small losses in killed and wounded. I think, if our men had us
ed buckshot cartridges, the effect would have been greater.”
Howard nodded. “Very well. Put it in your report.”
“What’s the butcher’s bill?” Walker asked.
“Their matchlocks don’t have much power beyond about fifty yards. One of the sappers has a ball embedded in his skull.”
“Let’s be having him then.” Walker gave a ghoulish grin and rolled open a pouch of forceps and pliers from his belt, taking out the largest and wiping it on his apron. “A real wound after that stinking mess below.”
Hamilton pointed to one of the sappers with a bloody bandage around his head and Walker got up. Hamilton then turned back to Howard and Wauchope, his eyes gleaming feverishly. “We did score one small victory though.” He nodded at the sapper standing behind him, who dropped a burlap bag containing something heavy at Howard’s feet. “Tamman Dora. We shot him in the village yesterday. One of the sappers is a Ghurka and has a kukri knife. Here’s the proof.”
“Good God, man.” Wauchope recoiled, holding his nose. “It stinks like rotten meat. Get rid of it.”
Hamilton kicked the bag aside, then squatted down, looking at them intently. “Apparently he was one of the rebel leaders. This could be just what we need. Show that lot we mean business.” He jerked his head toward the riverbank.
“Who told you he was a rebel leader?” Howard said quietly. “Your guide?”
“He was convinced of it. And the man put up a hell of a fight. I emptied my revolver into him and he still kept coming.”
“You mean the guide who led you into an ambush? Couldn’t he just have been using you to settle some old score?”
Hamilton glanced at the bag and then back at Howard, flustered. “Someone else can confirm the identification. Your muttadar”
“You’ll be lucky if there’s anything identifiable in that bag now,” Wauchope said.
“I maintain that we have killed a rebel leader,” Hamilton insisted, urgently now.
“Very well,” Howard said, pursing his lips. “You must write an account to go in my report to Colonel Rammell, when we finally get off this wretched sandbank.” He paused, looking at the sappers, then looked back at the empty boat. “I’ve just realized. Someone’s missing. Where’s Bebbie?”
“I was coming to that. Struck down by cholera.”
“Alive?”
“Just. You know how quickly it can take a man. He was prostrate by the time we reached a place to hold out near Rampa village. Then the most curious thing happened. He picked up a Kóya arrow and managed to cut himself We thought he’d be done for. But the arrow had some kind of paste on it, not the usual poison. Apparently they prick themselves with it. Within half an hour he was on his feet again. We’ve all noticed that the natives seem immune to the worst depredations of the fever. But by late evening the effect wore off, and he became delirious. When we marched on the rebels he insisted on staying at Rampa. He wanted to parley with the village headmen. I left four sappers with him and a promise to return. It was all I could do.”
“Confound the man,” Howard muttered angrily. “If only he’d parleyed with these people six months ago, none of this would have happened.” He looked at Hamilton. “You’ll have to go back. I won’t leave any of our sappers out there. Have your havildar break out another ammunition box and get your men some water.”
“Done.” Hamilton nodded to his havildar, who had understood and immediately marched off.
“Now’s the time to go, if you have to,” Wauchope said languidly, angling his pipe toward the riverbank. “I don’t think any of that lot will notice you leaving. The palm wine is flowing freely.”
“One of us will accompany you,” Howard said.
Hamilton turned to Howard. “I’d like both you and Robert to come. It would be a chance for Robert to go up-country and get a taste of it. And there’s something else I want you to see. Robert, you have a bent for things ancient, don’t you? And, Howard, you’re always going on about old languages?”
Wauchope perked up and knocked out his pipe. “You’ve found some antiquity?”
“In the shrine. I just stumbled into the entrance for a moment, but you’ll have to see.”
There was a crackling sound from the foreshore, like gunfire but different. Howard took out his eyeglass and peered intently. The Kóya were dancing around the fire, tossing in lengths of bamboo. The bamboo was bursting with a bang as the air between the knots expanded. It was a fireworks display, the flaming splinters spraying the air like sparks. Howard caught Sergeant O’Connell’s eye and shook his head vehemently. Then the air was rent by a succession of shrieks. He looked again. The dancing was suddenly frantic, joined by drum beating and the blowing of buffalo horns. A naked man appeared, his body daubed profusely with black and white spots, leading a buffalo calf toward the pit by the shore. The animal was bellowing and pawing the ground. Behind them the dancers parted and another man appeared, wearing only baggy dark pantaloons but carrying something gleaming in his right hand.
“Chendrayya,” Howard muttered. “Just as the muttadar described him.”
“He’s got a tulwar,” Wauchope murmured.
The man in the pantaloons raised his right hand, revealing the curved sword feared above all others by British soldiers in India, able to cut a man in two in a single stroke. In a flash the sword came down one way and then the other behind the buffalo, cleaving the air. For a split second there was silence, and then a terrible bellow as the calf fell backward off its legs, leaving the feet stuck grotesquely in the sand. Blood spurted from the severed limbs into the pit. The dancers leapt on the calf like a pack of frenzied hyenas, tearing the flesh off with knives and their bare hands. Blood spurted and flowed into the pit, the animal’s heart still pulsing even as it was torn from beneath the rib cage. Then the drumbeat began again, slow, insistent. The dancers drew back from the carnage, their heads and arms drenched in blood, and carrying their dripping trophies, slowly circling around. The muttadar on the foredeck began babbling incomprehensibly, then said the same words over and over again in the Kóya language, all the time drooling and beating his head, averting his eyes from the scene on the foreshore.
“What on earth is he on about?” Wauchope said.
“Meriah.” Howard spoke in little more than a whisper.
“Meriah? You mean human sacrifice? Good God.”
Three men were thrust forward to the edge of the pit. They were darker-skinned, wearing the tattered remains of lowland pantaloons, their hands tied behind their backs. They seemed stupefied, unable to stand upright, and were kicked to their knees by the man in body paint. Howard watched in horrified fascination. The captured police constables. There was nothing he could do.
“Sir!” O’Connell bellowed.
Howard suddenly saw something else. “Wait!” he shouted. “There are women and children there! Hold your fire!”
In an instant the tulwar flashed again. Two heads flew off, and blood gushed into the pit. The third constable fell forward, shrieking. The painted man pounced on him and pulled him into the pit, holding the struggling form down in the bloody mire until it was still. For a moment there was silence. Then the man stood up, his back to them, facing Chendrayya, and raised his arms outward, blood and mucus falling from his arms in a diaphanous sheen of red.
“That was for our benefit,” Howard murmured to Wauchope. “For it to be a true meriah sacrifice, the victim has to be ritually prepared. Those constables were executed. What they did to the buffalo was sacrifice.”
“You mean they do that to humans too?” Wauchope said, aghast, his composure gone.
“They supposedly tear their victims to pieces with knives, leaving the head suspended from a pole. No European has ever seen it.”
The drumbeat began again. The painted man in the pit pulled a heavy dripping garment over his shoulders. Howard could see it was a tiger skin, sodden with blood. The first drops of rain were spattering against the deck of the steamer, and steam from the fires mingled with an e
fflorescence that seemed to rise from the mangled carcass of the bull and the bloody pit beside it. Chendrayya looked across at the steamer, seeming to stare directly at Howard, then turned and made his way up the sandbar to the place where the three poles had been erected earlier. The frenzied dancers in front of him parted, revealing a group of white-clad women around one of the poles. Howard squinted against the mist that swirled over the river. The women were flourishing boughs, and the pole had the effigy of a bird suspended from it, a cock. Howard swallowed hard. With a sickening feeling, he realised there was more to come. Three victims, one to each pole, west, middle, east-sunset, noon, sunrise.
“This will not be quick,” he murmured to Wauchope.
A man was led out in front of the women, his hair shorn, garlanded with flowers, wearing a clean white garment. His neck was held between a cleft bamboo and he already seemed half-dead, whether from slow strangulation or toddy was impossible to tell. Eager hands reached out to catch the saliva that was drooling from his mouth, smearing it into the red turmeric on their own faces. He was dragged toward the far pole, out of sight in the crowd. The incessant slow drumbeat suddenly rose in a frenzied crescendo, and the group of women around the central pole parted. Howard looked, and nearly retched.
It was a child.
A boy, not much older than his own son, was tied to the pole. His head was lolling like the man’s, but his body shuddered, still alive. Four of the women held out his little arms and legs. The man in the tiger skin approached, and picked up a pole, like the handle of an axe. He tapped the boy on the head with it, and then tapped each of the boy’s limbs. Only they were not taps. Howard had been seeing everything in slow motion, and as his mind replayed it he saw the little limbs each crack and flop away, broken like boughs of dry wood. The women let go, and the small body flopped like a rag doll from the chain that held his neck. A rope tied to the top of the pole was pulled, and the cock began to whirl around and around, followed by the women who circled it. Among the swirling robes there were flashes of blades held in readiness, glinting. The boy raised his head, and Howard was sure he heard crying, the helpless crying of a child, that seemed to reach out to him, that seemed to come from a child of his own.
The Tiger Warrior Page 12
