The Faraway Drums

by Jon Cleary

  “Where you been? Jay-sus, the Major was getting worried, yes—”

  Karim was having trouble breathing. “You’ve got to get me back to camp, Mick.”

  Ahearn put a hand on the arm across the Sikh’s belly, felt the warm blood soaking through the shirt. “You ain’t going to be able to walk that far, man. I’ll go and get a gharry. What happened, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I followed Prince Sankar—he went to four different places—I couldn’t leave him to meet you here. But some of his chaps must have been following me—two of them jumped on me. They knifed me—”

  “What happened to the buggers?”

  “I killed one. The other one got away . . . Get me back to the camp, Mick. I don’t feel so bloody marvellous—”

  Ahearn ran out into the road, looked wildly up and down for a gharry. The gharry-wallahs were never around when you wanted ‘em . . . Then he saw one coming up the road and he ran down and jumped into it. He stood up in the ramshackle carriage, slapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to hurry. The driver, startled at being spoken to in English by a coolie, turned to argue and Ahearn belted him over the ear and told him to get going. The driver cracked his whip above his horse and the spavined animal broke into a stumbling trot.

  Opposite the gate to the Fort Ahearn jumped down and ran into the blackness under the arch. For a moment he thought Karim Singh had disappeared; then he heard the moan and saw the Sikh had slipped to the ground. He picked him up, struggling under the weight of the much bigger man; he cursed, as he had all his life, at being so small. Somehow he half-carried Karim out to the gharry, pushed him into the smelly, flea-infested vehicle and scrambled in after him. Then he snapped at the driver to head north up the road towards the camp. The driver whipped his horse and again it broke into its stumbling trot and started up the road, the driver yelling for the slow-moving traffic to get out of his way. Ahearn, sitting beside the slouched Karim Singh, could hear the big man sighing with pain as the gharry rattled and swayed.

  “Won’t be long, boyo. We’ll get you fixed up—”

  Then the two men came at the gharry out of the crowd straggling down the road, one from each side. Ahearn saw the flash of a knife on either side of him and he yelled a warning to Karim and dragged his bayonet out from under his shirt. The driver, always alert for snatch-and-run robbers, slashed with his whip at the man on the left; Ahearn drove his bayonet straight into the chest of the man coming in on the right. The man fell sideways against the wheel of the gharry, clutching at the bayonet; Ahearn, not wanting to lose his own grip on his only weapon, fell out of the gharry on top of the man. He went over the top of the thug, still holding the bayonet and feeling it come loose out of the man’s chest, and rolled in the dust. He came up on his knees and saw the second man coming at him with his knife. He tried to bring the bayonet up, but he was too late. The knife went into his throat and he fell backwards into the dirt of the road.

  In the instant before he died it seemed that his gaze widened to take in everything about him. He saw the gharry disappearing up the road into the darkness, the horse galloping now; he saw the dead thug beside him and the other man running into the crowd; and he saw the crowd, which had spread out to stand in a wide half-circle, nobody moving, everyone just staring silently at him as he died. Holy Jay-sus, they’re always there Just standing and watching . . .yes . . .

  VI

  Early in the morning Farnol and George Lathrop went to see Karim Singh in the camp hospital. When he had brought Karim here last night in the gharry, Farnol had insisted that the Sikh was to be kept in a section on his own and he had stayed there till Lathrop had sent down two Ghurkas who were to stand guard over Karim till further notice. The sister in charge had wanted to ask questions, but Farnol had told her this was a Political Service matter and she had had the sense and experience to ask no more. When Farnol and Lathrop got to the hospital at six in the morning another sister was in charge.

  “He had a good night.” She was one of those tough-minded, cheery nurses; she would have told John the Baptist’s head not to worry. “But he’s a very lucky man.”

  Farnol knew that. When he had gone out of the reception tent last night and followed the orderly down to the gharry waiting outside regimental headquarters he had been expecting the worst. His fears had been confirmed, or so he thought, when he had seen Karim Singh stretched out on the seat of the gharry. Then the Sikh’s eyes had opened and he had whispered, “Go down to the Fort, sahib. Mick is there in the road—”

  Farnol at once had sent a sergeant and three men down to the Old City, giving them a description of Ahearn and how he was dressed. By the time he had got back from seeing Karim admitted to the hospital, the rescue party was back at camp with Ahearn’s body.

  Farnol had stood looking down at the little man in the dusty, blood-stained coolie’s clothes that were too big for him.

  No matter how many dead men he saw he was always amazed at how even the faces of men he knew well turned into those of strangers. But this particular stranger had saved the life of Karim Singh.

  “Bury him as if he was one of us, sergeant. He was going to be on our strength as from tomorrow. He was a Catholic, I think. Ask the R.C. padre to arrange a Mass for him.”

  The sergeant looked puzzled. “One of us, sir? This chap?”

  “Yes!” Then Farnol realized his voice was too sharp; he softened it. “I’m sorry, sergeant. Just take my word for it—Private Ahearn deserves to be buried as one of us. I think he’d appreciate it if he knew.”

  The sergeant, though curious, was not dense. “Yes, sir. We’ll see he gets a decent burial.”

  “Did he have any personal things on him when you picked up the body?”

  “Nothing, sir. One of the coolies in the crowd told me he’d had a bayonet, but someone had pinched that. There was another coolie in the road, looked like he’d been stabbed by a bayonet.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “Told the coolies to get rid of him, sir.”

  It was so easy to dispose of the unwanted dead. He didn’t ask if the sergeant had found a tattoo mark inside the elbow of the other man. He was certain it would have been there.

  Now he and George Lathrop were visiting the survivor; and he felt relief and gladness that it had been Karim Singh who had escaped. He was not quite sure what anger would have made him do if Karim had been the one to die. Probably he would have sought out Sankar and tried to kill him . . .

  Karim Singh, in pyjamas and without his turban, his hair pulled up in a top-knot, looked far less imposing than usual. “I am sorry about Private Ahearn, sahib. It should not have been him who died, it had nothing to do with him—”

  “What happened with Prince Sankar? Colonel Lathrop would like to know.”

  Karim tried to ease himself up straighter in the bed, but Lathrop waved him down. “Stay comfortable. We’re not putting on a show here. Where did Prince Sankar go when you followed him? Was he alone?”

  “He was alone, sahib. He went first to where the horses and elephants are being held. The Nawab of Kalanpur and then Prince Mahendra came to talk to him there.”

  “How long were they there?”

  “About half an hour, sahib.”

  “Where did Prince Sankar go then?”

  “To the camp of the Rajah of Batlor. He was there an hour.”

  “Christ!” said Lathrop. “He’s gathering in all the hill States. Or trying to.”

  “All the small ones, anyway. Go on, Karim.”

  “Then Prince Sankar went down to the Old City. He went into a house off one of the bazaars and after a while a man arrived in a gharry, but I couldn’t see his face, he had his turban wound down over it. But I could tell he was a very superior person the way he brushed the coolies out of his way as he went into the house. He was there an hour, then he came out and drove away. Then Prince Sankar came out and went down to Mussoorie Street and into a house there. I asked a storekeeper who lived there and he said a
sadhu. A holy man with much influence.”

  “That’s all we want,” said Lathrop. “A combination of the princes and the sadhus. Go on, Karim. Where did Prince Sankar go from there?”

  “I don’t know, sahib. That was when the men jumped on me. I was marvellously lucky to get away.”

  “Indeed you were,” said Lathrop and patted the big foot sticking up under the sheet. “Jolly good work, Karim.”

  Farnol shook Karim’s hand, putting the same pressure into the grip as he had when he had shaken hands with his father; he felt almost the same emotion. He would have been embarrassed to say he loved a man; but he knew he had more regard for this big cheerful Sikh than just that of the friendship between master and servant. Karim’s handshake was no less firm.

  The two officers went out into the pearly morning light. Dust might hang over the rest of Delhi but not here above the tent city: the water-carts were already at work. Coolies, all of them in new white trousers and shirts, the best dressed they had been since birth, were sprinkling the new lawns. A pi-dog slunk up towards a kitchen tent and was chased away as if it were a whole pack of jackals. A man wandered about with a can of white paint and a brush held at the ready, as if looking for yesterday’s paint to fade or peel. India, or anyway this part of it, had never looked so immaculate. It was just unfortunate that assassins could not be laid to rest with water or paint.

  “Well, now we have to think about where they’re going to try and kill the King,” said Lathrop. “I’ve got a motor car; and Hugh Stacey, who’s in charge of security, and I are going down the line to meet the King’s train. We’ll talk to H.E. about it.”

  “About what? Cancelling the parade from the station?”

  “Can’t do that. I’m sure the King wouldn’t hear of it—he hasn’t come all this way to deny the people a chance to see him. No, the parade will have to go ahead.”

  “They could make their attempt anywhere along the route, then—” Farnol did not know Delhi as well as he knew the hills.

  “Stacey and I think the worst risk will be along the Chandni Chowk.”

  Farnol did know the Chandni Chowk, the street of jewellers and gold- and silversmiths, sometimes called the richest street in the world. The houses and stores along both sides of the street were backed by alleys into which any assassin could make his escape. And the street itself would be packed with spectators, a dense crowd that would be an unwitting accomplice of the killer.

  “We’re going to be unpopular, but we can’t take any risks along there. Stacey started moving troops and police in there at dawn—H.E. brought in 4000 extra police from outside Delhi and Stacey is using all of them. Nobody will be allowed into any house on the Chowk after six a.m., not even if he lives on the street. There’ll be troops on the rooftops and there’ll be a policeman at a window of every house. They should all be in place by now.”

  “One feels so bloody helpless . . . With all our precautions, they could still succeed. Especially if there’s a fanatic amongst them.”

  “Someone like Mahendra, you mean? You’ve got to keep an eye on him.”

  “Me? I’m not in the parade. There’s only a special troop from each of the regiments—twelve men, that’s all. My father couldn’t put me in—there’d be a hell of a stink from the other chaps if one of them had to be put out to put me in. I’ve been away from the regiment too long.”

  “You’ll be in the parade, old chap. I’ve arranged that you ride as special escort to the Ranee’s coach. Mahendra will be riding with her.”

  “Does the Ranee know I’m to be her escort?”

  “No. But I don’t think she’ll mind—I gather she was an old gel friend of yours.”

  Farnol threw back his head and laughed, glad to let a little tension escape him. “Some day, George, we must have a durbar of our own, just the chaps from the Political Service who’ve slept with Mala. We could have quite a roll-up.”

  “Our sins are paying off. She won’t object if you’re riding behind her. Give her the eye occasionally, as if you’re promising to meet her tonight.”

  “I’m going to ride behind her—that’ll be difficult. I’ll be looking right into the eye of Mahendra.”

  “Just what we want. Well, I’ll see you at Salimgarh station. I’ll be coming on the royal train.”

  “Where will the King be in the parade? Is he riding an elephant?”

  “No. He’s a stubborn bugger, they tell me. But then I guess all kings are . . . H.E. wanted him on an elephant, with a gold howdah and all the trimmings. But the King insists he’s going to ride a horse. He doesn’t seem to appreciate that the population out here expect a ruler to look like a ruler. Their Rajahs don’t lead parades on bloody nags. Give you a lift back to camp?”

  “I’ll walk, George. I want to think a little.”

  “Don’t let your train of thought get too long, Clive. That could lead you into absolute bloody despair. Keep your chin up, as they say. I’ve always wanted to meet the bugger who said that. Must’ve been some bloody desk-wallah who’d never seen strong sunlight. I lift my chin and I’m blinded.”

  9

  I

  FARNOL WENT to see Bridie before he rode into the Old City with the troop from Farnol’s Horse. “I’m sorry to be so early—”

  “I’ve been up since six—I shouldn’t want to be late for a day like this. You look even better than last night! That turban—I thought only rajahs could get away with something as swanky as that.”

  The green, gold and silver turban was indeed swanky. Farnol wore it with pride and a certain élan: Englishmen, being Empire builders, adapt well to the costumes of the conquered. “The trick is to remember to duck when you enter a low doorway. Will you be watching the parade?”

  “Viola has arranged that. Somewhere close to the entrance to the King’s camp.”

  He was glad she would not be somewhere close to the Chandni Chowk. “We’ll have lunch together, then watch the polo this afternoon.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you expect no trouble this morning?”

  He had to be honest with her; he could feel his worry showing on his face. “No. I’m trying to tell you I hope there’s no trouble this morning.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “I hope so, too, Clive. Nothing would please me more than to be able to write a story that said everything went off beautifully, as planned. If it does, I already have the head for my story—The Glory of Empire.”

  He smiled. “You’ve changed.”

  “Maybe I’m carried away by the atmosphere. My editor will probably cut my story and my father will never speak to me again if he hears of it. But—” She laughed at herself: she tingled with martial tunes, foreign tunes. “I shall cheer for the King.”

  “Save a cheer for me when I pass by.”

  He climbed up on to his horse, a black charger that stood seventeen hands. She looked up at him and gasped at the beauty of him. “Oh God!” she gasped. “It must never come to an end!”

  He knew what she meant and he knew it could never last forever. He rode away with a heavy heart, for he felt no pleasure in being a symbol.

  II

  In a hotel, no Ritz or Grand or Perapalas, just outside the Old City, Zoltan Monday lay beside Magda and looked at the lazily whirling fan hanging from the cracked and stained ceiling. A portrait of Queen Victoria, the glass covering it spotted with fly-dirt, hung on the wall opposite the bed. He wondered why her portrait still hung there: didn’t the hotel management know there had been two monarchs since? Perhaps they had given up caring who reigned over them.

  Magda stirred, opened one eye and smiled at him. Her whore’s smile: it delighted him and yet hurt, a constant reminder of how they had met. Then her smile died, she scratched herself vigorously and jumped out of bed. “There are fleas! I’m being eaten alive! Scratch my back!”

  He was aware of his own discomfort; he got out of bed and stood beside her. “Scratch mine.”

  They stood there, arms round each other: it was like so
me sort of erotic love-play. Then he held her to him and she felt him rising against her: the fleas had left that alone. “I’m not getting back into that bed, darling. I’m not going to share you with the fleas.”

  “We’ll move out this morning.” A stiff member was full of optimism.

  “Where shall we go? There isn’t a vacant room in Delhi. You must telephone Baron von Albern, ask him if he can put us up. No, I’ll telephone him. I think he still has an eye for the ladies.”

  “If he saw you like that—” He was raw and spotted from flea bites and love bites. But he would still have been randy if he had been suffering from tiger bites. He loved her, and still he could not quite believe his luck.

  Then there was a knock at the door. They both threw on robes and he went to the door and opened it. A bearer stood there, one who looked too smart and clean to be one of the hotel staff.

  “Good morning, sahib. My master, the Nawab of Kalanpur, asks can you and your memsahib come to breakfast with him before he leaves for the parade to greet the King?”

  “Now? It is so early—”

  “My master must leave at eight o’clock for the parade. If you could hurry, sahib—”

  Fifteen minutes later the Mondays were outside the hotel getting into the gharry the Nawab had sent for them. Another gharry was hailed to carry their luggage; even if they had to camp out in the open Monday was determined they were not coming back to the hotel and its fleas. They drove at a smart clip through the already busy streets and fifteen minutes later were sitting down to breakfast in the Nawab’s personal tent. The Nawab was dressed for the parade: he made breakfast look like a State banquet. He ate a boiled egg only a little larger than the ruby stuck in the aigrette of his turban. Each time he leaned forward he had to put up a hand to keep his four rows of pearls out of his buttered toast. Magda, ravenous, gorged her stomach and her eyes.

  “May we talk business, Mr. Monday? Does your wife mind? I am so rushed for time.”

  Monday spread marmalade slowly on his toast, preparing himself. He had never expected to be doing any business with Bertie, this cricketing fool. Was the man going to offer him some price for Magda to replace the wife he had lost?