The Fishing Fleet

by Anne de Courcy

  ‘The entire female population stood, sat and leant out from roofs and verandas in a confused tangle of wood-smoke, glare, teeth and brown arms, and dressed in every colour of the rainbow. This made a seething background on which the gold and silver of bracelets and nose rings shot out like flashes of moonlight on water . . . Below, in the light, the male population swarmed in its holiday clothes, kept back from the road by Holkar’s cavalry whose lances made dark points in the crowd and whose half-broken horses stamped and squealed.

  ‘There is a square in Indore about the size of the Campo dei Fiori in Rome and here there are two palaces, one on either side, one stone built, the other stucco and painted a raging blue. Both can be seen far out into the country as they are much higher than the other buildings . . . When we got to the Lal Bagh gardens elephants were looming like castles in the shadows under the trees . . . As one looked at [the palace] ablaze, like everything else, the gardens were on the right, full of high trees and strong-scented jasmine and on the left the river. At the top of the steps the Maharaja Holkar stood, receiving his guests in a white silk coat and rose-coloured puggri . . . I had just time to see that his only ornament was three rows of pearls as big as peas.’

  The jewels of these princes were beyond price. The most amazing belonged to the last Nizam of Hyderabad, who had enriched his fabulous hoard with boxes of diamonds, rubies and emeralds that had belonged to Tsar Nicholas II. Next in importance were those of Baroda. To meet the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII), the young Gaekwar of Baroda wore a seven-string necklace of pearls the size of marbles. A 128-carat diamond known as the ‘Star of the South’ was the centrepiece of a necklace made of five rows of diamonds and two of emeralds, with a diamond plume worn in his turban. When the Prince visited he was met by the Gaekwar’s own elephant, its face and ears painted and bedecked with gold anklets and caparisoned with a gold howdah, up to which the Prince climbed on a silver ladder. In 1930 Rosita Forbes described the Maharaja of Jodhpur as having writing table sets encrusted with precious stones, children’s balls set with rubies, women’s shoes sewn with diamonds and an expanding cap made of the finest solitaire diamonds.

  The Maharaja of Dholpur had a nine-row necklace of pearls as big as gulls’ eggs. The Maharaja of Patiala, six foot tall, on ceremonial occasions wore at least four ropes of pearls to the waist, a belt of diamonds, a gold lamé scarf held by a four-inch emerald, with more necklaces of diamonds and emeralds and a jewelled sword. At a state banquet for the Viceroy, Lord Reading, he wore, on his maroon brocade coat, the Empress Eugenie’s diamond necklace, a three-row pearl collar, the ten diamond stars of his order, the pale blue ribbon and diamond jewel of the Star of India with – on his maroon puggri – an enormous diamond tiara from which hung loops of diamonds, pearls and emeralds. ‘He looked wonderful,’ wrote Yvonne Fitzroy, who had come out to India in 1921 as Private Secretary to the Vicereine.

  Curzon might have remarked loftily to Edward VII that ‘The native chiefs . . . have been deprived of the essential rights and attributes of sovereignty,’ but to their people they were absolute rulers, venerated almost as gods, moving in an aura of wealth and power. Violet Jacob, accompanying the Nawab of Jaora on one of his ceremonial trips, saw this first-hand.

  ‘We passed through about twenty villages, mud-walled, most of them, and buried in a world of poppies brilliant in the sun, with high mango groves like clumps of plumes standing in their midst. Great banyans put down their aerial roots making arches and pillars of twisted fibres and wood, many with stone shrines hidden in their sinister darkness. Village people, according to custom, ran to meet the Nawab, presenting him with small coins which he touched and gave to his tonga* man; the women came separately, some beating tom-toms. Peacocks flew about, trees loomed grey and heavy in the hot morning air, poppies blazed and native cavalrymen galloped and pranced and on we went again.’

  Annette Bowen, invited with her parents to the Dasera Durbar ceremony of 1933 by the Maharaja of Mysore, had several days of dinner parties, race meetings and garden parties as well as the main reception. At this, wearing a ball gown and long white gloves (men wore tailcoats or full dress uniforms), she was presented to the Maharaja, ‘who sat, jewelled to his fingertips and with jewelled thimbles to keep the rings on, and flashing in cloth of gold and silver.

  ‘We had to approach over carpets embroidered with pearls, crunching underfoot, and curtsey. He gave us each a stiff bouquet, drenched in rosewater – in the old days, each bouquet would have contained a piece of jewellery. All the city of Mysore was strung with fairy lights . . . [there were] daily processions of elephants, faces painted, ears studded with huge emeralds and gorgeously caparisoned, tusks and toenails gilded with real gold leaf, and all the time strange scents of spices and incense and charcoal fires, rosewater and frangipani, and oriental music and singing.’

  The maharajas were as keen on protocol and precedence as the British – in some cases even more so. How people were placed at dinner, how many palace steps the Maharaja went down to greet someone, whether an elephant walked half a pace behind or half a pace in front of a neighbouring ruler and, above all, how many guns that particular ruler was entitled to as a formal salute from the British* were matters of intense and heated debate, often filling whole files of correspondence between officials as one prince vied to outdo another.

  Sport and hunting – the peacetime substitutes for warfare – united both the British and the princes. For young officers, who had to be ready at any time to be sent to quell a local uprising or repel an incursion by one of the warring tribes of the Frontier, it was often almost a religion, encouraged by their superiors: a young man who was fit, hard, a good rider and a quick, accurate shot was the sort needed on active service.

  Yet even here precedence counted. To produce the best tiger shoot was for the princes a matter of honour, often involving the luring of tigers to a particular locality by the staking out night after night of cow or goat; and it was equally important that the most important guest, especially if he were the Viceroy, bagged the biggest tiger. To achieve this, there were even special tape measures, made with only eleven inches to the foot.

  At one time, tiger shooting had a certain social justification. When tigers in Bengal were common, they were often seen along the roads in daylight, and killed large numbers of people. The terrified peasants, in particular the forest workers and wood cutters, would naturally refuse to go out to work until the tiger had been despatched, usually by a District Officer or one of his subordinates to whom a message had been sent. In the large blocks of jungle, an eye was kept on the tiger population: there had to be enough to keep the numbers of pig and deer in check or these would eat and destroy the villagers’ crops in their search for food.

  Often, though, tigers were killed purely for sport, something difficult to comprehend now. It was generally an arduous and uncomfortable business. As tigers lay up in the heat of the day, climbing into a machan*, and despatching beaters could be done unobtrusively. Then came a long, motionless wait in the midday silence, with heat, somnolence and flies the worst enemies and the gun barrels, too hot to hold, resting on a handy branch. After a distant shot signalled the beginning of the beat, shouts and the rattling of bamboo canes against branches drove an army of creatures towards the machan – peafowl and jungle fowl, jackal, perhaps a mongoose or two, small birds and screeching emerald parakeets. ‘Soon the form of the tiger is viewed through the vista of bamboos and tree trunks,’ wrote Colonel Burton of his first tiger shoot in 1894. ‘He looks huge; small chance has anything borne down by that massive form, gripped by those terrible jaws. His ruff stands out white on either side of his neck. The placing of the first shot is everything.’

  So much, indeed, did tiger shooting evolve into a rite of passage for the Englishman in India* that it became almost an industry, with the Madras taxidermy factory of Van Ingen and Van Ingen acquiring a global reputation for the tiger-skin rugs once found on the library floors of so many returned Anglo-Indians.
Skinning of a shot animal had to be done on the spot if possible – dragging over rough ground would scrape off large patches of fur – and within a few hours, or the fur would begin to slip and the pelt to decompose, so an important shooting party would include a skinner or two among the beaters. Once removed, the skin had to be dried, which meant stretching on a wooden frame in the shade if the party was of several days’ duration, and salted, so that it was in treatable condition when it reached the Van Ingen workshops. Between 1928 and 1937, this firm handled 400–600 tigers a year from all over India and Burma (then part of the Raj).

  ‘Tigers are a necessary part of every Viceroy’s experience,’ wrote Yvonne Fitzroy. ‘You can have a beat, sit over a kill or a drinking pool, or walk up the quarry; you can shoot on your feet, from a machan, or from the back of an elephant – but since risk on these occasions has to be reduced to a minimum an elephant or, in some cases, a tower is chosen. Important shoots demand weeks of preparation; the tiger has first to be located and then if possible kept in the district by the lure of an easy meal in the shape of a tame buffalo tied up in the vicinity. To prevent his wandering a fresh buffalo is provided whenever necessary, and once he starts killing it is easy to keep track of him. He will usually lie up after a heavy meal and sleep off the effects, and with the heat of the day as your ally this is the best moment to work his undoing . . . on each occasion it is a matter of great moment to the host that the Viceroy should get his tiger and as far as possible the uncertainties of the jungle are defied.’

  Dinner parties were equally impressive. Cecile Stanley Clarke declared that the most wonderful dinner party she had ever been to was given by an Indian prince ‘whose name I could not pronounce’.

  ‘He had an enormous Arabian Nights palace of glittering white, just the kind I should ask for if I ever uncorked a genie. The dinner was held in the garden under gold canopies. The air was heavy with jasmine and the fountains were sending showers of sparkling water into the starlit sky. Somewhere a band was playing soft Eastern music. Soldiers in glorious gold and scarlet uniforms were standing about, two of them leading a cheetah in a gold and jewelled collar, which snarled at us in the moonlight.

  ‘I was taken in to dinner by a very handsome Indian. He was obviously very amused by my excitement. It would be a pleasure to be in his harem, I thought – provided I was Number One wife and could poison the others. The dinner went on for hours and hours. I nobly tried to eat a bit of everything, having been warned not to go all out on first courses. This proved good advice, as after about the tenth, just as one was thinking “Well, that’s that”, an enormous dish of peacocks, complete with tails, appeared. The chicken pilau was perhaps the most sensational, as it had real gold dust sprinkled over it. It gave one a lovely feeling, eating gold! I was very thankful that the prevailing fashion didn’t favour tight waists. Little silver boxes had been put by the side of each plate as a present.’

  After dinner came another revelation of princely splendour, albeit in a more basic direction. The female guests were escorted by ayahs to the ladies’ powder room. ‘We were all looking forward to seeing this, having been told that the plumbing was sensational. It had just been installed, all the way from Paris. And this was, so to speak, opening night. Nor were we disappointed! The room was of cathedral-like proportions and all down one side, stretching as far as the eye could see, were rows and rows of ‘pull and let goes’ in a variety of glittering colours. On the opposite side were bidets. The floor was made of black and gold mosaic and at the very far end there was a sunken bath.’

  Yet despite their wealth, power and hospitality, Indians, from the grandest maharaja down, were excluded from virtually all of the British clubs. The Raj Kumar of Mysore (the maharaja) was often in Madras during the season and, as Katherine Welford told me: ‘One would meet him at Government House, the races, or the Gymkhana Club. But he was not allowed in the Adyar Club – no Indian was allowed there, nor would one meet an Indian at a dinner party. He was often a guest of the Governor and I could, and often did, dance with him at Government House – but never at the club.’

  When an Indian prince showed a preference for a white woman over his own kind the highest Government circles were drawn in – and many maharajas did, especially those who had been educated in England. Letters would fly back and forth between the Viceroy’s aides and the Resident of the state, the telegraph wires would hum and veiled threats be issued to both parties. Even as 1920s’ idol, film star Rudolph Valentino, was enrapturing female fans with his portrayal in The Sheik of an Arab with whom a titled Englishwoman falls in love, the Agent to the Governor-General of the Punjab States was writing to his superior of the Maharaja’s wish to bring his French mistress, Mademoiselle Seret, to India. ‘From discussions I have had with the Maharaja, it is apparent that his Highness is utterly miserable unless he has a European lady to associate with. Indian women neither satisfy nor interest him, and the few months he spends in India every year are a penance, unless he is accompanied by his mistress.’

  The Maharaja made this clear in a letter of 1 December 1924, while assuring the British Establishment that nothing untoward would happen provided he got his own way. ‘I have no intention of marrying a European or Indian lady again, but should unforeseen circumstances unavoidably impel me to a fresh matrimonial alliance I cannot imagine how a domestic occurrence of this nature should in the slightest degree impair the cordiality of my personal relations with the British high officials whose friendship I have invariably sought and shall always seek to cultivate. Apropos of visits of European friends of either sex to me in my state or outside I am sure my mature experience and discretion will be fully relied upon to ensure that no departure from conventional decency shall be allowed to occur.’

  A few days later, on 8 December, the Agent passed on this ultimatum:

  ‘His Highness made it clear in conversation that, if he were prevented from bringing Mademoiselle Seret out to India, he would be compelled to marry a European or to stay away from his State for much longer periods. Either of these alternatives is open to strong objection, and it would be far preferable, in my opinion, to let his Highness bring Mademoiselle Seret to Kapurthala when he visits India, as we can rely on his discretion not to create a scandal. The lady would reside in a house well away from the Palace and would not be in evidence when any high official visited the State. His Highness even offered to send her elsewhere on such occasions, if it were thought desirable.’

  When the matter reached the Viceroy he sensibly decided to turn a blind eye, as a letter of 30 December to Colonel Minchin makes plain:

  ‘I am now desired to inform you that his Excellency does not desire any inquisitorial enquiries to be made regarding visitors to Kapurthala. There have been no open scandals and as long as there are no scandals of an open and public character, in his Excellency’s view it is no concern of ours what visitors come to stay at Kapurthala. Of course if a lady was produced on a public and formal occasion or at a social entertainment when European officers were present at the Maharaja’s invitation and the lady in question were known to be the Maharaja’s mistress, a different situation would arise; but so far as His Excellency is aware, the lady to whom you refer has always been kept in the background and has not appeared on such occasions. There are therefore at present no grounds for offence.’

  The first to actually marry a Fishing Fleet girl was Rajendar Singh, the rich, glamorous, hard-playing, philandering Maharaja of Patiala. He was famous as a sportsman: he was a brilliant shot, his polo teams were the best in India and he was the first maharaja to engage English cricket professionals to coach his teams – he was so keen on cricket that he once had the top of an 8,000-foot mountain levelled off to make the highest cricket pitch in the world – and in 1892, aged twenty, he imported the first motor car to India, a Deboin Bouton, with the number plate Patiala O and a speed of 15–20 km an hour.

  Horses and women were his great weaknesses. He owned 700 of the best thoroughbreds in India, bou
ght for him by his great friend Lord William Beresford, VC, the horse-mad third son of the Marquis of Waterford. These studs were managed for him by an Irishman called Charles Bryan, the son of the head clerk of the Central Police Office in Lahore. When Charles Bryan came to Patiala in 1890 he brought his three young sisters with him.

  The Maharaja seduced them all – and fell so deeply in love with the eldest, Florrie, a quiet, gentle girl, that he determined to marry her. He confided this to Lord William Beresford and, knowing that it would be frowned on by the British, asked Lord William to be his intermediary with the Viceroy.

  Beresford’s intervention brought the expected result. ‘I have mentioned the matter to H.E. the Viceroy,’ he wrote to his friend the Maharaja, ‘and I feel bound to tell you that H.E. regards your intention with the strongest disapproval, and that he will not, in any way, countenance this marriage. An alliance of this kind, contracted with a European far below your rank, is bound to lead to the most unfortunate results. It will render your position both with Europeans and Indians most embarrassing. In the Punjab, as you must be well aware, the marriage will be most unpopular.’

  The twenty-one-year-old Maharaja, accustomed to being absolute ruler in his own large state, took no notice. On 13 April 1893 the Civil and Military Gazette carried the news of his marriage on its front page. ‘The Maharaja Rajendar Singh of Patiala has secretly married Miss Florry Bryan, sister of Mr C. Bryan, in charge of H.H.’s stables . . . the marriage was by the Hindu and Sikh ceremonies united . . . the bride’s name was changed to Harnam Kaur. The Maharaja left for Dholpur the same night with his new bride.’