The Faraway Drums

by Jon Cleary

  “Herr Baron—” He looked at her suspiciously; but she knew there was only one business in which coquetry paid off. “Have you looked at the other side of this situation? Do you think it is our right to pass judgement on the Indians’ desire for freedom?”

  He wanted to smile; but he had never insulted ladies. “Madame Monday, I can assure you that Berlin is even less interested in the Indians’ freedom than you or I are. I don’t think we have to trouble ourselves with that moral judgement.”

  “Who said anything about Berlin?”

  “Your husband did, several days ago.” He looked back at Monday. “I presume your employers will tell Berlin of your order?”

  “Most certainly, Herr Baron.” Monday took another sip of champagne; it had regained its taste. “I’m afraid that will take care of your order to me.”

  “Not quite, Herr Monday. If you do not cancel your order to Krupps and DWM, then I shall call in Miss O’Brady and give her the full story of what has gone on. She can fill it in with details of everything that has happened in the past week and I’m sure it will be what I understand American newspapers call a scoop. I should imagine that every newspaper in the world, with the exception of those in the Fatherland, will pick up the story and run it on their front pages. It will be the last thing the Kaiser will want just now, while his cousin King George is being crowned here in India.”

  Monday put down his glass, said quietly, “It will be the end of your career, Herr Baron. I shall have to tell my employers why I am cancelling my orders.”

  “That, Herr Monday, will be your privilege.” He picked up his glass, finished the champagne in it. “You see, I do believe in certain freedoms.”

  Magda stood up, collected the glasses, put them on the silver tray on the table against the wall. She did it with the air of a house-keeper who knew the party was over; but not quite. She said, “Herr Baron, does this mean you won’t want us to sit with you tomorrow to see the Coronation?”

  The Baron looked at her in surprise. But not Zoltan: he knew she always tried to salvage something from disaster. The Baron said, “The invitation still stands, Madame—”

  “Then we shall be there.” She drew on her gloves. “Come, sweetheart. We should just have time to get to the cable office before it closes.”

  The Baron stood up. “You are a remarkable woman, Madame Magda, I hope your husband appreciates that.”

  “I do,” said Monday.

  “The world hasn’t come to an end, Herr Baron.” She gave him a sweet, friendly smile. She thought him old-fashioned and stupidly honourable, but she bore him no malice. “There will be other orders from other clients.”

  Ah, but the world is coming to an end, thought the Baron. But just bowed as the arms salesman and his wife, order books at the ready, went out.

  III

  “Today’s the day,” said the Queen, only just awake and not yet queenly.

  The King was already up, a stickler for punctuality. The Coronation was still five hours away, but he must be sure no one was late. He had already had all his equerries wakened and he hoped all his subjects, the millions of them, were up and about. Or at any rate the hundred thousand or so of them who would actually attend the Coronation.

  God, being an Englishman and out of England, where even He found the weather trying, had arranged a beautiful day for the occasion. An equerry came in to tell the King so and remarked that it would please the Archbishop of Canterbury when he heard of it.

  “Cousin Willy would give half of Prussia for all that’s about to happen today,” said the Queen. She was not malicious, only sensible about the Kaiser. “He loves pomp and ceremony.”

  “I thought of inviting him. But in the circumstances, the way he’s acting lately, Asquith thought it wasn’t advisable.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. It would have been showing off and that’s not like you.”

  But five hours later, when the King and Queen left their camp for the climax of the Durbar, any republican might have been forgiven for thinking that the Royal pair were indeed showing off. The King was wearing the special crown created by Garrards of London for his Indian Coronation; no one had thought of entrusting the task to the craftsmen of the Chandni Chowk. The cap was of purple velvet trimmed with ermine and surmounted with a band of diamonds, four large emeralds and four large sapphires; above that were four cross pâtées with ruby centres, alternated with four fleurs-de-lys with emerald centres. His Majesty wore the Imperial purple robes, a surcoat of purple, white satin breeches and stockings and the sash of the Order of the Garter. The Queen was almost as eye-catching, but modestly wore, instead of a crown, a diadem of diamonds and emeralds. The assembled princes, decked out like jewelled peacocks, felt suddenly quite drab when they saw them and one homosexual rajah swooned with envy and had to be revived with smelling salts.

  The royal couple arrived at the Durbar site in their open carriage drawn by four horses; the King felt more comfortable and conspicuous than he had on his arrival in Delhi. A band struck up Schubert’s Ave Maria, which pleased and amused Queen Mary but made the King wonder if he now had to worry about feminist-minded bandmasters. The band, as if suddenly realizing the possibility of its banishment to the distant Falkland Islands, switched abruptly to God Save The King.

  The pavilion where the King was to be acclaimed Emperor stood in the middle of the vast concourse, topped by a golden dome and with steps leading up to it. There, the royal couple would be visible to most of the great assemblage and the King an ideal target for anyone with a high-powered rifle. But first their majesties had to receive homage from the princes and so they made their way to a tented canopy where the exalted traffic would be easier to handle as it passed before the King and Queen. The couple were preceded by Indian attendants carrying peacock fans, yaks’ tails and golden maces. The escort came from the 10th Hussars and the Imperial Cadet Corps; the heavy purple trains of the royal pair were carried by ten pages, the young sons of Indian rulers. Out beyond the crowd a hundred-and-one guns boomed the royal salute; ladies in the crowd jumped at each reverberation and several princes in the waiting line sighed as they considered their own meagre gun salutes. The King, who throughout his life had occasionally been troubled by bouts of modesty, now began to be convinced of his own majesty, or at least that of his throne.

  Bridie, seated with Lady Westbrook and the Farnol family, was busily scribbling notes for her story. She was thrilled by the spectacle, knew she would never see the like of it again; she made a note comparing it with the drab Inauguration of President Taft, then scratched it out. Neo-imperialists were not encouraged on the staff of the Globe.

  “It was worth all that dreadful trip from Simla.” Lady Westbrook was wearing another new dress, one that gave her more leg-room than her hobble-skirt. She also had a new hat with a large bouquet of artificial roses on the crown, and a bright pink parasol; she blocked the view of those sitting immediately behind her but she looked so regal that no one dared to complain. She lit a cheroot, obscuring the view still further. “I think I shall shut my mind to any memories after this. This is enough for the rest of my days.”

  Bridie reached for her hand, pressed it. “I shall never forget it, either.”

  She wanted to tell Clive the same thing, but he was not in this stand with her and Lady Westbrook and his family. He was on duty with George Lathrop, wearing his uniform as an officer of Farnol’s Horse but playing his role as political agent. He and Colonel Lathrop stood on the edge of a group of senior officers to one side of the canopy where the King was about to receive the princes and chieftains.

  “Have you checked that all our friends are here?” said Lathrop.

  “It’s not possible, George. There’s so much confusion down at the tail end. But I’ve seen Sankar—he’s here.”

  “There’s a rumour that Baroda’s up to something.”

  “Good Christ, you don’t think he’s—?”

  “He’d never attempt what we’re talking about—” They w
ere speaking in very low voices. The brass around them would be happier in their ignorance, the safest state of mind for generals in peacetime. Lathrop had no confidence in his superiors. “If he’s involved at all, he’ll leave the actual killing to some lesser chap.”

  Farnol looked around, scanning the huge crowd. The closest were the four thousand special guests and it was hardly likely that any one of them would be the assassin. But behind them were 70,000 other spectators, the middle class of India: the British, the chee-chees and the educated Indians who, if they did not run the country, kept it running. Still further behind them were what the journalists would describe as the populace. The maidan where the Durbar was being held was a great flat expanse, but mounds had been built at strategic points to give certain sections of the huge crowd a view. The mounds also provided an ideal position from which a sniper, if he could surround himself with enough accomplices as camouflage, would be able to draw a bead on the King when he mounted the steps to the gold-domed pavilion. But for the present the King was safe under his canopy where he was about to receive the ruling princes.

  The line began to move forward. The new Nizam of Hyderabad, the premier ruler, was the first to pay homage. Still in mourning for his father, the man who had died of a surfeit of alcohol and wives, he wore a plain black suit but topped it with a yellow turban with a diamond aigrette. He moved on and was succeeded by other princes. Farnol, now watching the line, lost his concentration for a moment as he fell under the spell of the splendour. The spectrum of princes, even if out-shone by the King, dazzled with their magnificence; a river of silks stretched away down the long line; gems blazed as if their wearers dripped with a priceless liquid. Farnol saw the Nawab of Bhawalpore, a mere child, standing in line, shining like a glittering doll. Further down the line he could see the chieftains from Siam and Burma, their pagoda-like head-dresses bright as twists of gold in the sun. Pride overcame worry for the moment; he was overwhelmed at being part of such an Empire. Oh God, he thought, echoing Bridie, it must never come to an end! But even in his head the echo was hollow.

  “Holy Christ!” Lathrop couldn’t keep his voice down; the generals looked at him as if he were some fervent chaplain. “Look at Baroda!”

  The Gaekwar of Baroda must have been missing from the line when Farnol had inspected it; or, amidst the splendour of the other princes, Farnol had missed him. The ruler of Baroda was making some sort of protest that for the moment escaped the puzzled and aghast crowd. He wore no silk and no jewellery, though he was one of the richest princes in India; he was dressed in the plain white linen dress of a Mahratta and he carried a walking stick instead of a sword. Farnol guessed at the purpose of the protest: Baroda, more than any of the other rulers, had fought for his independent authority. But he had chosen the wrong moment to protest: he had insulted the King and the protocol-minded Anglo-Indians would never forgive him.

  “H.E. will kill him for that!” Lathrop had dropped his voice: it was a positive hiss now.

  “Possibly,” said Farnol. “But that eliminates him from our suspects. He wouldn’t try something like that if he were in our plot. It would be too much of a link—”

  Lathrop subsided, took out his monocle, which had clouded, and wiped it. He put it back in and said, “There’s Bertie.”

  “We’re safe,” said Farnol, watching the resplendent figure of the Nawab, his coat and turban in his MCC colours, bow before the King and Queen. “He’s never going to put a blot on those colours.”

  “There’s Sankar. He’s the bugger to watch—”

  The Rajah of Pandar, who hated ostentation, had been tempted to appear in the brown robes he wore when he made his retreats to the monasteries in the mountains. Then he had learned what Baroda planned to do and he knew, taking into account his own low precedence to that of Baroda, that his own protest would be dismissed as a cheap imitation of that of the senior prince. So he had compromised, had worn a simple achkan in dark blue silk and a small diamond in the aigrette that adorned his dark blue turban. His bow to the King was stiff, almost perfunctory, but it sufficed and he passed on beyond the royal couple and disappeared into the crowd behind them.

  Lathrop let out a soft sigh of relief. “That’s him out of the way, thank Christ.”

  Farnol was running his eye down the rest of the line, no longer aware of the magnificence of costumes and jewels, only looking for faces. “Where’s Mala?”

  “She should be there—”

  “She’s not—” Then he saw the tall slim figure in pale blue silk, his chest ablaze with what looked like a breast-plate of diamonds. “Good God, look at Mahendra!”

  IV

  Prince Mahendra had woken to the last day of his life with a drowsy feeling of elation. In her own tent his half-sister the Ranee had woken with the same feeling, though for a different reason. She had looked at the still sleeping form of the young Bengal Lancer beside her and wondered if she should have him seconded to her as an adviser on a permanent basis or at least till she grew tired of him. The Government might ask on what grounds he could possibly act as an adviser, but she knew one or two or three or four in the upper echelons and she could depend on them to put the question aside if it came up. The subaltern was a bright boy and he could be seconded to her for experience in Indian matters.

  She shook him awake. “Darling boy. You must be off—”

  “Shall I see you tonight?”

  She couldn’t remember if she had promised tonight to Mayne’s Horse or the King’s entourage. Probably the equerry, it being the King’s night. “Not tonight. I am going into purdah.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Rest, darling boy. Now be off. You must look your best when you trot past the King in the parade today.”

  Mahendra, coming out of his own tent, saw the young Bengal Lancer leaving. He had known of Mala’s visitors each night, but he had swallowed his disgust and anger: her punishment would come at the proper time. But this morning it was as if he were drugged, as if he were walking on a high wire stretched between dull sanity and the exultation of martyrdom. He did not think of himself as religious; he was not a mystic. This morning he burned with self-righteousness: what he was about to do today would be the beginning of the cleansing of India.

  The Ranee, aware that tent flaps did not keep in the sounds of ecstasy as did thick palace doors, had dismissed the big Sikh who had been her bodyguard; the last thing she wanted guarded with her present diversions was her body. The young subaltern came out of the tent, certain that he wouldn’t be observed. Then he saw Mahendra. For a moment he hesitated out of English politeness, then he scuttled away like all lovers who have to leave before the neighbours are up. Mahendra did not go after him, but strode across to the Ranee’s tent and barged in. Naked, the first and only time he had seen her like that, she sat up and stared at him.

  “You might have knocked, Bobs.” Which, even in her surprise at seeing him, she knew would have been difficult on a canvas flap.

  “You filthy fornicating whore!”

  The look in his eyes rather than his words suddenly made her pull the sheet up about her. “Get out!”

  But he was beyond taking orders from her or even from himself. His hatred of her and her libertine sexuality became itself sexual; he fell on her as a rapist might have. His hands clutched the throat that wore no jewels this morning; she fought more furiously than she had ever struggled in love-making; but he killed her in an orgasm of blind mad hatred that left him sprawled on her as a hundred lovers had been.

  It was almost five minutes before his brain cleared and he sat up.

  He looked at her coldly, as a man does who has made love without love. He was sane now; or at least sane enough to be cunningly practical. He turned the Ranee on her side, pulled the black hair down over the bruised throat, then he drew the sheet up round her shoulders. She looked as if she were asleep, which indeed she was, if the poets are to be believed.

  He stood up but did not say goodbye to her even in his mind; t
here was no point in remembering her since he himself would soon be dead. He went out of the tent and met a bearer bringing tea in a silver pot.

  “The Ranee is sleeping. She was not well during the night, but she is sleeping now and she is not to be disturbed.”

  “Not even for the Durbar?”

  “She will not be going to the Durbar. I shall look in on her myself later. But no one is to disturb her—tell Mohammed to see that no one goes into her tent. Just let her sleep.”

  But he sat in a chair outside his own tent to make sure that no one disobeyed the instructions; he knew as well as anyone how inquisitive servants could be. Mohammed, the butler, came to enquire after his mistress’s health and went away promising to keep the small camp quiet. Then it was time for Mahendra to dress for the Coronation.

  He dressed alone, dismissing his personal bearer. He put the jewelled dagger into the belt beneath his achkan; he had decided against carrying a sword which might hinder him as he plunged towards the King. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror that had been brought from Serog; but something was missing. He was the ruler of Serog now, if only for another hour or two; but who would know? Then he knew what was needed to identify him.

  He went across to Mala’s tent, went in, loosely lacing the flap behind him in case some busybody servant tried to follow him. He did not look at the body in the bed: she no longer existed. He went to the large brass-bound jewel-case on the portable dressing-table, opened it and gazed at the treasure it contained. He had no idea of its value; his madness had never run to dreams of wealth. He rummaged through the case, spilling pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, his fingers insensitive to them; Mala had handled them sensuously, as if they were sex objects. He took out the diamond breastplate, put it on and went out of the tent without even a glance at himself in the long mirror opposite Mala’s bed. He was not interested in how he looked this morning. The diamond adornment, which certain people would recognize, was worn only to show that for an hour at least on this last day of his life he had taken Mala’s place, was the Ruler of Serog.