The Faraway Drums

by Jon Cleary

  He had been gone an hour, was trying to find Mala’s place in the procession’s order of precedence before it began to move forward towards the King, when the Ranee’s maidservant, ignoring the butler’s orders, went into her mistress’s tent to see if she was ill enough to need a doctor. A moment later she came running out screaming.

  Mohammed, the grey-haired butler, took over at once. He had served the family for fifty years; crises were part of the housekeeping. He regretted the death of the Ranee, but he had never felt any affection for her. He felt no grief or shock; when you have served a half-mad master for as long as he had served Mahendra, you come to expect the unexpected. He sent a bearer to bring the police.

  Then, knowing who the murderer was and where he was at that moment, he sent another bearer to tell Major Farnol. Like all butlers he knew all the secrets of the household: or at least those between the Ranee and Mahendra; and he knew that Major Farnol, once the Ranee’s lover, had had Mahendra under observation. He did not know what Prince Mahendra planned to do, but he knew the madman should not represent Serog at this morning’s Coronation.

  The bearer met every barrier possible except flood and fire in his efforts to get to Major Farnol. He was chased away by police, soldiers and petty officials who wore their officialdom as if it were a sword. He had no sense of urgency: the butler had just told him to tell the Major Sahib that the Ranee had been murdered. He had been shocked when told of her death, but death came to everyone and not even the Major Sahib could bring the Ranee back to life. He did not fancy Prince Mahendra as the ruling master, but one master was as good or as bad as another; all that mattered was to have a job and a roof over one’s head. So he wandered along the back of the huge crowd, asking for Major Farnol and being chased away, while Mahendra moved slowly but steadily towards his destiny.

  Then the bearer saw the Major Sahib’s Sikh bearer, sitting in a canvas chair on a mound that was crowded with a host of spectators. The bearer would have missed him except that Karim Singh, besides being the only Sikh amongst a group of chee-chees, was the only one with a telescope. Desperate through irritation and exhaustion, the bearer forced his way up the mound, dodging cuffs and blows from the crowd, and literally fell on his knees in front of Karim Singh.

  A hundred yards away Farnol was still puzzled by the Ranee’s absence. “She wouldn’t let Mahendra take her place in something like this—”

  Lathrop, too, was puzzled. But, with Prince Sankar already out of the way and the Nawab just finished his homage to the King, he was settling back with relief, convinced that the danger to the King’s life was over for the moment. “Perhaps she’s not well. My chaps tell me she’s been having rather a time with all her young men—I suppose it can catch up with a woman after a while—”

  “George, she may be ill but she’d never let Mahendra wear that breastplate! She hoarded her jewels for herself—and that’s the treasure of treasures!”

  Then Karim Singh said right behind him, “Sahib—”

  He turned round. The tall Sikh was trying to stand to attention; he fought the pain for a moment, then relaxed, leaning on the hospital walking-stick. He hated the thought of embarrassing the Major so close to His Majesty the King.

  “Sahib—the Ranee is dead. She has been murdered by Prince Mahendra, I think—”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Lathrop. “Then he’s the one who’s going to—Come on!”

  “What do we do? Arrest him in front of the King?”

  “Yes—you and I do! If he won’t come quietly, then I’ll shout for an escort. But we’ll try to do it quietly—”

  Mahendra was still some distance from the royal couple under their canopy. But he had reached a point where the line was single file now; only ten or twelve rulers stood between him and the King. The dagger in his belt rubbed against his side; all he had to do was undo a single button of his achkan and his hand would be on the hilt. He looked up ahead, to the side of the royal canopy; he could see Sankar and the Nawab standing with those who had already paid homage. He had a moment of childish vanity when he looked for approval on their faces, but they were both stiff-faced and he was too far away to see what encouragement there might be in their eyes. Then he looked over the shoulders of the princes ahead of him and saw the small figure of the King, dressed to kill.

  He did not see the two officers marching smartly towards him till the last moment. Farnol and Lathrop, resplendent in dress uniforms and turbans, attracted more attention than they desired; but the watching crowd had grown tired of the splendour of princes. These two tall men were what the Durbar was all about. They were the British Raj, they represented the authority that had kept the peace ever since the Mutiny. They saw the officers separate, each one taking his place on opposite sides of a young prince in pale blue silk and a blazing diamond breastplate. Who was he? They looked at their programmes: the Ranee of Serog? A transvestite about to be presented?

  Then suddenly the crowd’s attention was diverted. The Maharajah of Denkanir, eighty years old and frail-legged, suddenly pitched forward on his knees as he bowed before the King. There was a gasp of sympathy from the crowd and attendants rushed forward to help the old man to his feet. It was that diversion, unintended though it was, that kept the next few moments out of the pages of history.

  “Good morning, Mahendra,” said Lathrop. “We’d like a word with you.”

  Mahendra could feel the black cloud that suddenly rushed through his brain. It was a great pain in his head; he opened his mouth to scream but there was only a choking noise. Then he felt the hands grip his elbows; Farnol’s tight fingers touched a nerve and one pain blew away the other. He snatched the other arm away from Lathrop’s grip, tore the button off his achkan as he reached inside for the dagger. His hand came out and he lunged at Farnol: the King was forgotten, he had to kill this Englishman who was all Englishmen. Farnol was standing so close to Mahendra that only the prince immediately behind in the line saw what happened. The knife went into Farnol’s ribs and he gasped; but he didn’t bend over or fall away from Mahendra. He grasped the hand holding the knife, pulled it away from himself; the knife came out, dripping blood on the emerald-green jacket. Mahendra struggled, a low gurgling coming from his open mouth; as he tried to free the hand that held the knife, but Farnol was holding it with all his strength. Then suddenly Mahendra slumped, catching both Farnol and Lathrop off guard for just a moment. He turned the knife inwards and pushed his body on to it. It went in just below the diamond breastplate and up into his heart and in the moment before he died his brain seemed to explode.

  Lathrop stepped in front of Mahendra, helping Farnol hold up the dead prince. He bent his head, as if being solicitous towards a man who had fainted; but he had softly but sharply called for four soldiers nearby to come forward. The soldiers, all Englishmen, did so briskly; they took hold of Mahendra and holding him upright carried him out of the line and through the crowd. Lathrop looked at the prince immediately behind him.

  “Nothing happened, you understand, Your Highness? Prince Mahendra just had one of his attacks.”

  “Of course, Colonel.” The prince would spend the next twenty years telling close friends what he thought he had seen; but for today he would be discreet, for he knew the power of the Political Service and he knew Colonel Lathrop. “Now may I move forward? I have to pay my respects to His Majesty.”

  Then Lathrop saw the blood on Farnol’s jacket. “Jesus wept! I didn’t know—”

  “I can walk off, George. Make no fuss.”

  The two officers marched off through the crowd. Farnol later would never know how he managed to stay on his feet, let alone walk upright; he kept one arm across his ribs, doing his best to stop the blood from showing. Once beyond the crowd he stumbled and Lathrop grabbed him. Soldiers came forward and took hold of the wounded Farnol; a medical orderly, bored with attending ladies fainting from the heat, appeared out of nowhere and at once called for a stretcher and an ambulance. Lathrop bent down as Farnol was laid on the s
tretcher.

  “I’ll send your parents over to the hospital at once, old chap.”

  “I’d like to see Miss O’Brady, too.”

  A blanket was thrown over him, the stretcher was picked up. A crowd had gathered around, but these were Indians, the usual spectators. The Europeans and the chee-chees and the Indians far enough up the social ladder to be invited guests were once more engrossed in the main attraction. The homage was coming to an end and the King and Queen were about to move across to the pavilion on its dais where, the programme said, the King was to make some announcement.

  “Do you think the King noticed what happened?” Farnol said.

  “Possibly,” said Lathrop. “But it won’t be the last time someone will fall out of a presentation line. He’ll get used to it.”

  V

  There was talk, of course. The law, if it is to be respected, cannot afford to be private. Two inquests were held, one for the Ranee and one for Mahendra: they were conducted by the same magistrate on the same day. It was established that the Ranee had died from strangulation by her half-brother Prince Mahendra; he, in turn, had died from a self-inflicted wound. Medical evidence was called to state that Mahendra had had a history of mental disorder; Lathrop, but not Farnol, gave evidence that he had known of threats by Mahendra on the Ranee’s life. Lathrop was identified only by his rank and regiment; he was not called upon to state that he was head of the Political Service. The magistrate, given neither wink nor nod but knowing Lathrop’s true role, did not ask awkward questions but gave verdicts in each case that caused little comment in the newspapers and only a little more in princely circles. The inquests had been held back till their majesties had left India and returned to England; by then no one cared what had happened at the Durbar that hadn’t directly affected themselves. The course of law has to be public but it doesn’t have to be advertised.

  Bridie did not make it to her ship in Bombay. She sent a cable to her editor saying she was taking three months’ leave of absence while she did more research in India. She sent him her story of the Durbar, making no mention of any plot or any untoward incident. Her editor replied, congratulating her on her story and saying that she could have her leave of absence but without pay.

  “They don’t pamper you in New England,” she said. “So you’ll either have to marry me or keep me.”

  “Will you marry me?” said Farnol.

  “If it’s the only way I can get you into my bed . . .”

  “You won’t mind staying on in India?”

  She put the question aside; she was still getting over the shock of learning how close he had come to being killed. Mahendra’s knife had missed Farnol’s heart by less than an inch. “If I were not in India, I’d be forever worrying what was happening to you.”

  “You could marry some ward boss and forget all about me.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him as he lay in the hospital bed. She held his arms down, so that he wouldn’t reach for her and draw her down on to his wound. “No, I’m a romantic—I need to marry a hero. I don’t think any ward boss would do what you did to protect a President—he’d be looking around for a new nominee. Is the King going to decorate you?”

  “George Lathrop says I’m getting some medal or other. But the King won’t know what it’s for.”

  “What about Sankar and the Nawab? Surely they’re going to jail or something?”

  “I’m afraid not. H.E. is going to read them the riot act, tell them if they step out of line just one inch they’ll be deposed and some more loyal chap will be put in their place.”

  “Will it work?”

  “It’s worked before. Bertie will do what he’s told—he’ll go back to being a good MCC chap, playing a straight bat. Sankar—I don’t know. He could just disappear, make for some monastery in the mountains. Or he may stay on in Pandar behaving himself and perhaps he’ll be there at the next Durbar for the next King, bending his hypocritical knee and, who knows, even getting a medal.”

  Lady Westbrook and the Baron came to see Farnol in hospital the day after the Coronation. “I’m going back to Simla tomorrow,” said Lady Westbrook. “But I’ll come down for the wedding. Bridie told me, Clive. I’m delighted for you both. I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch.”

  “I envy you.” The Baron’s arm ached with remembered feeling. “May I come to the wedding?”

  “Baron, would you be my best man?”

  “I should be honoured.”

  “Have the Mondays gone?”

  “They left for Bombay this morning. Going back to Europe, I gather. He got a cable from Krupps recalling him. Expect I shall get one myself some day soon.” Then he smiled. He felt light-hearted, had a mad moment when he wondered if he might ask Lady Westbrook to waltz. “Not from Krupps, though.”

  “Did you see the parade?”

  “It was magnificent,” said the Baron. “I wish the Kaiser had seen it, he’d have been impressed.” In more ways than one, he wanted to say; but knew the Kaiser was too arrogant to be impressed in the proper way. “Fifty thousand troops—it did an old soldier’s heart good to see them marching and riding past. All those magnificent uniforms and banners stretching away . . .”

  “It was like a sunset,” said Lady Westbrook and looked at Farnol and he nodded, understanding.

  Farnol and Bridie were married and went to Kashmir for their honeymoon, where they discovered they were ideal partners in bed. When they returned Lathrop sent for Farnol. “Got a job for you, old chap. How would you and the good wife like to take possession of the palace at Serog?”

  “Am I to be the new Rajah?”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea. Brooke, that white rajah out in Borneo, seems to do all right. No, you’ll be a sort of regent, though your official title will be Political Adviser. The Ranee’s family, her uncles and cousins, couldn’t agree on who was to take over. H.E. called them to order and said he was appointing a youngster named Mulk as the heir—he’s a second cousin of the Ranee. He’s only twelve years old, so he’ll need an adviser. I think you and your good wife should be very happy in that palace, just the place for an extended honeymoon. You’ll run the State, of course. But discreetly.”

  “Oh, of course. Always discreetly.” Then he smiled. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? All Savanna wanted to do was run Serog.”

  Lathrop nodded. “It’s settled, then?”

  “Not quite. I haven’t asked—the good wife yet.”

  “Don’t be foolish, old chap. What woman would refuse the opportunity to be mistress of a palace?”

  So Bridie, like Lola Montez, became mistress of a palace.

  11

  I

  Extract from the memoirs of Miss Bridie O’Brady:

  CLIVE AND I lived in the palace of Serog for three years. We made trips, of course: to Bombay, Simla, Nepal; but each time we came back I felt as if we were coming home. Yet even in my happiest moments I knew it was not and never would be that: home was still America. But while Clive and I were so happy with each other I never mentioned what beckoned beyond the horizon of my mind.

  Then 1914 came and the faraway drums were heard only too distinctly. I did go home then, to Boston; and Clive, recalled to duty, went first to Mesopotamia, then to Egypt and finally to France. Karim Singh went with him; he had spent the three years at Serog with us, bringing his family there. I hate to admit it even to myself, but I think both he and Clive were glad when they were able to escape from Serog and the tranquillity there.

  Farnol’s Horse, along with several other cavalry regiments, was held in reserve for the Battle of the Somme. Clive and another officer were attached to an infantry regiment, the Royal Fusiliers, for “ground experience” as their orders stated. They went into action on 1 July 1916, and the experience remained with Clive for the rest of his life. Karim Singh was killed and Clive, wounded in the knee, spent the day in a shell-hole and watched men die like wildflowers scythed down in a grey, grassless meadow. Sixty thousand men were killed or wounded t
hat one day and that was the end of the glory of war.

  Clive was invalided back to Blighty, as they called England. I managed to cross the Atlantic, travelling as a newspaper correspondent going to cover the war work of British women, and was re-united with Clive. He never went back to the front and we stayed in England for the rest of the war.

  His leg improved, but for the rest of his life he had a slight limp. He made no protest when I suggested we should come to America and try to settle here. We did settle, first in Virginia, then in Kentucky, and he was happy till the day he died. He became a trainer of thoroughbreds and some of you may remember that he trained two Kentucky Derby winners. More people will remember the horses that won, but I know whom I remember.

  We went back to India twice, in 1925 and 1937. We did not go in 1947 when India and Pakistan finally became independent nations. Clive for years had believed they must have their independence but he did not like the way it was finally done. He wept when he read of what the Hindus and Muslims did to each other in those first few months: the blood-bath came, but it was not the British who died.

  Clive died in 1961, two days after the Inauguration of John F. Kennedy as President. We were invited to the ceremony, as we had been to every Democratic Inauguration from President Roosevelt’s onwards: it pays to have a ward boss for a father. I sat there that cold January day and thought of another celebration in another land: there was pride and celebration there under the grey Washington sky, but there was no glory, not as I remembered the Durbar of long ago. I never attempt to argue when my grandchildren tell me, in the patient tones that the polite young use when speaking to the blinkered elderly, that there is no place in today’s world for Empire. I know they are right because my head, which is not as soft as they sometimes imagine, tells me so. But in that same head are memories of what I saw. I can never tell them the thrill I once felt when I looked up at a tall man in a splendid uniform on a tall black charger and cried, “Oh God, it must never come to an end!”