Lanham, always alert for the slightest error as a good collector should be, noted that ‘Georgina’ and told himself Mr John Bold would need watching. Then he dismissed him. He and his daughter started towards the headman’s hut, deep in conversation.
Leaving John standing in the hot sun and suddenly feeling very alone. Fate, he suspected, was about to deal yet another blow ...
PART THREE: BOLD’S HORSE
ONE
Lord Hastings, his staff and the Collector breakfasted lazily and at length, as was the Company officials’ wont. They had risen at dawn while it was still cool, worked a couple of hours, and then ridden.
Above them the punkah billowed like an ill-reefed sail as they slumped round the polished table, eating their way through a menu of curried rice, fried fish, mutton chops in gravy, omelettes, preserves, coffee and tea, taking time out between each course for a puff or two at the hookahs which stood at the side of each dignitary; while silent black servants in crisp white glided in and out like dusky ghosts, taking away and placing down silver and gilded dishes.
Watching them from his hard seat on the settle in a far corner of the big room, his place untouched by the efforts of the punkah-wallah, John Bold focused his attention on the man sitting to the left of the Collector — The Governor General himself, Lord Hastings. He was a small dark man, hiding his balding head under the beaver he wore even at table, for he still retained the habits he had acquired, before he had been ruined, as one of the Prince Regent’s bucks. In those days back in Brighton the Prince and his cronies had always worn their hats to dine, to spite the Prince’s father, George III, who had striven to retain the proprieties, even in his madness. Surveying Hastings now and feeling the sweat trickle unpleasantly down the small of his back, John thought there was definitely something simian about the Governor General. With the dark shadow of beard across his broad face (although his Indian servant would have shaved him in his sleep only a couple of hours before) and his jug-handle ears, he really looked like a monkey. His gait, too, hanging-armed and awkward, had something of the primate.
Yet despite his appearance and his old reputation as a rake-hell, Hastings had made a success of his office. Nor was he a coward like his former patron, the Prince Regent. He had not left the fighting, which had taken up much of his time in these last few years, to the professional soldiers. He had ventured personally into the field as commander-in-chief in every campaign that the Company’s armies had undertaken. The Collector, John thought ruefully, was different. He had probably never smelled powder in all his life.
It was seven days now since they had finally reached Musulipatan and it had become clear to John that the Collector disliked him.
Admittedly he had invited John to his large mansion one evening, but the rooms had been filled with local notables, dressed in the height of London fashion (for Indian tailors and seamstresses were swift at copying), and he had felt awkward and out of place in the poor suit of ‘ducks’, which was all he had been able to afford with the last of his money.
It had been obvious, too, that the Collector was determined to keep him away from Georgina. That night he had surrounded her with young officers and those Company employees known to the locals as ‘three hundred pound a year’ men: their widows would automatically receive that sum for the rest of their lives. ‘Dead or alive, he’s worth three hundred!’ it was trumpeted of such men, who were generally regarded as the best catch one of the fishing fleet could make.
That night he had got her briefly on to the verandah of the bungalow, as these one-storey houses were called. Hidden from sight within by the chupper, a large screen of thatch used to prevent the monsoon rains from soaking the walls, he had pleaded, ‘But why do you spurn me so, Georgina — after what we have been to one another?’
She snapped back, ‘It’s no use being angry with me, John Bold. It’s not my fault. My father, the Collector’ — later he would reflect that she often referred to her father by his title — ‘is very conscious of his position. And since Mama is gone, I must act as hostess. That is all.’ She hesitated. ‘But you must understand that he means well for me.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean? Come on,’ he demanded with the fierce impatience of youth as she hesitated.
‘Well, if you must know, John, he wants me to marry well and live in style.’
Savagely he pulled her to him, feeling her body soft and desirable beneath the loose silk of her gown, and tried to kiss her, hissing, ‘You will marry me — and damn living in style!’
But she twisted her face aside, as if his kiss was repugnant to her, and fled back into the big room.
But now that episode was temporarily forgotten — his immediate concern was his commission. For the last two days he had been signing chits for his board and lodgings. Now he was penniless in a foreign land. He needed money desperately and the only way he knew of getting it was to become a soldier again.
This whole week he had waited on the hard settle, while the great man had breakfasted, trying to catch the Governor General’s eye. Without success. He had noticed the Collector glancing at him covertly, though he had made no attempt to present John or bring him to the great man’s notice. Now he was almost in despair.
He was bored, too. He was sick of the garrison with its scandal and small talk. In England people talked about things. Here they talked endlessly and maliciously about people. What Mr This said to Miss That and what they did — the endless trivial gossip about marriages and non-marriages and will-be-marriages and ought-to-be marriages ... ladies flirting, reunions, clothes and the latest burrakana — big dinner. How he longed for the open air and the simplicity of the soldier’s life!
Outside, a servant commenced attaching a thermanticote to the window. It was a huge wooden contraption, hollow and circular, containing four fans and covered with grass mats soaked in water. When the fans turned, a stream of cooler air, made fragrant by the grass, would enter the room and enable the company to smoke their bubble pipes and digest their enormous meal in some comfort. John shifted stickily. He hoped the servants would start the fans working soon. It was damnably hot for December!
Lord Hastings had just chortled, ‘I do declare that Madame Chuman has eleven-pence of the shilling of Hindoo blood floating in her veins,’ when the big machine went into action and cooler air flooded the room. There was polite applause from the others, and in that instant the Collector crooked his finger at John.
He found himself stumbling to his feet, mind racing, wondering why the Collector should be helping him.
‘John Bold,’ the Collector announced, his bulging eyes as cold as ever.
‘Ah,’ Lord Hastings said, his black eyes twinkling a little roguishly, ‘the young man who rescued the beautiful Miss Lanham, I presume.’ Hastings lingered significantly on that ‘rescued’ and John felt himself going red. It seemed to imply that he had done more with Georgina than rescue her.
‘I have read the note from His Grace the Duke of Wellington,’ the Governor General continued, taking a pull from his hookah, sending huge bubbles coursing through the scented water. ‘He recommends you most highly, indeed, Bold, and after this business of yours with the Pindarees I haven’t the slightest hesitation in accepting his recommendation. You will receive a lieutenant’s commission in the Company’s service. In the Bengal Light Cavalry, to be precise.’
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ John stammered, wondering: Why the cavalry? The white arm, as it was called, was usually reserved for rich fools.
‘You will be gazetted with effect from tomorrow. My aide-de-camp Major Tomkins will explain everything to you, Bold.’ He indicated a large, efficient-looking officer at the far end of the long table. ‘Later. But let me say a few words to you, Bold, before you go off.’ He breathed out, his black-button eyes suddenly hard, as if he were thinking of something not particularly pleasant. ‘You must understand, Bold, that we English have ceased to be the wonder to the natives that we once were. More and more they are begi
nning to inquire why they were subdued by us in the first place. What particular strengths do we possess to enable us to come to this remote place and conquer so many? And such doubters are being actively supported by the Mahratta Confederacy.’
‘Yessir,’ John said automatically, wondering why the great man was bothering to tell this to a junior officer.
‘Now, Bold, during the time of Napoleon we veered on the side of leniency to the Mahratta princes to our north — since we hadn’t the strength to do anything else. But now the time is rapidly coming when we will have to show those heathens who is master in Central India.’ Hastings’ voice was hard and determined, and John could see now how he had risen to his present status. He was a man who would brook no nonsense, who could impose his will on virtually anyone.
‘The trial of strength with those Hindoo princes is not far off, Bold. Let me explain. Tomkins!’
His aide-de-camp rose rapidly, dabbing the omelette from his dyed-black moustache with a snowy napkin the size of a small tablecloth.
Hastily the servants removed the dishes from in front of the Governor General, and Tomkins spread out a map of Central India.
‘Here is the Deccan,’ the Governor General announced, running a hairy paw over the centre of India, ‘and here is Berar, now ruled by Apa Sahib, supposedly our ally. In reality he is a blackguard, sir, capable of any trickery ... Now at present we have six battalions of native infantry in and around Apa Sahib’s capital — here at Nagpore — at the disposal of our Resident, a Mr Jenkins — good, capable fellow, don’t you agree, Collector?’
Lanham nodded his agreement, his green eyes as wintry as ever. John felt that he was all the same very interested in what was being said, although such matters were not his concern.
‘There at Berar, at least in its capital, we have a slight hold, but here further north at Burrapore we have no presence whatsoever. Bold’ — Hastings lowered his voice significantly — ‘there Apa Sahib and the other Mahratta princes are actively encouraging the ruler of this tiny princedom to feed the Pindarees southwards through Berar and on to Company territory. Why? To test our strength, naturally, and our resolution.’
John nodded his understanding. ‘You mean, sir that if that means of feeding the Pindarees into the Company’s territory,’ he ventured hesitantly, acutely aware of all these important gentlemen, listening, ‘was stopped, the Pindaree menace would be over?’
Hastings didn’t answer directly, but said, ‘I am in the process of raising great armies.’ He raised his voice so that everyone could hear him, almost as if he might be speaking in the House of Lords. ‘I want the Grand Army of Bengal to number forty thousand fighting men. The Army of the Deccan will supply another seventy thousand while the Presidency of Bombay will field a similar large number. When they are all raised, gentlemen, then we will march and crush the Mahratta Confederacy for good!’ He slammed the table so that the plates rattled.
The Collector frowned. Perhaps he was calculating the cost to him of any broken dishes.
‘But first, we must halt the depredations of the Pindarees. I cannot have them sending thousands of riders south while the territories are denuded of their fighting men in this coming battle with the princes.’ He looked directly at John.
‘But in order to block that funnel through Burrapore and Berar, I need intelligence about the Ranee of Burrapore.’ There was an intake of breath from the old India hands, and Hastings nodded. ‘You know well who I mean, gentlemen, that heathen woman who has been likened to a blend of whore, tigress and Machiavellian prince ... a dangerous combination indeed.’
There was a chorus of ‘hear-hears’ from his listeners.
Hastings looked at John. ‘You, my dear young man, are going to supply me with that intelligence.’
In his surprise, John blurted out, ‘I sir?’
Hastings nodded, and there was no mistaking the smile of smug satisfaction on Lanham’s pudgy face. He had known all along about his commission and the job that went with it.
John went out into the glare of the December morning with Major Tomkins, his mind whirling. Why had the Governor General honoured him so surprisingly with a commission — and a mission? And what had motivated the Collector, for John was sure that Lanham was behind this sudden change in his fortune.
The two of them pushed through the usual mêlée, deafened by the chatter of the Indians, who seemed to talk all the time, unless they were asleep. Graceful women carried water jugs on their heads and naked infants on their hips. Bhisties — water collectors — were filling their leathern bags from the filthy tidal wash of the river, ignoring the dead Brahmins, dogs and other appalling debris bobbing in the sluggish current. And all the while the palankeen bearers shouted for custom and slapped the sides of their empty boxes. All was noise, heat, dust and confusion. It was the face of eternal India.
Once clear of the main streets, heading for the blinding glare of the whitewashed fort, Major Tomkins said with a kindly smile, ‘You’ve been here a bit, Bold, but you’re still a griff, you know.’
‘A what, sir?’
‘A griff or griffin — that’s what we call a newcomer, still wet behind the ears.’
‘Oh, I see, sir.’ Now it was John’s turn to smile. He was beginning to like Major Tomkins, who was unlike most of the Company’s pompous and overbearing officers and officials. But then Major Tomkins had been in the King’s service before coming out with Lord Hastings.
‘Well, Griff, let me tell you a few things. You can see that My Lord Hastings is in earnest when he says we are preparing for war.’ With his gold-topped cane he indicated the skyline where a long column of native infantry was practising forming a square and then reverting back to a marching column. It was the standard formation for withstanding an attack by cavalry. ‘We’re recruiting at a tremendous rate — but trained men are hard to find. So your command — a half squadron of native cavalry — will be raw. You will have to train them in double-quick time.’
‘But I was in the Foot, sir,’ John objected, whilst inwardly rejoicing at the thought of a half squadron. ‘I know virtually nothing about cavalry, save that I faced them at Waterloo.’
‘Not so important. I’ve made provision for the training. It will be sufficient if your men can handle a sword, carbine and horse. Your job will be intelligence. And by the beginning of the new year My Lord Hastings will want you riding to Nagpore to start your mission into Burrapore.’
‘I see, sir. And this Ranee. Is she — ’
‘A she-devil,’ Tomkins cut him short hastily. ‘We have heard stories of her, Bold. Just make sure that you never fall into that creature’s hands.’
Their ears were assailed by the wail of a native fiddle and beat of drums. They were passing a rough stage on which squatted a pretty young woman in a vermilion saree, surrounded by berouged children in cheap finery, watched by a crowd of gawping, barefoot peasants.
‘Princess Sita waiting for the Lord Rama to rescue her,’ Tomkins explained, a cynical smile on his tough face. ‘It’s part of their mythology. Unfortunately the actor who plays Lord Rama won’t appear today — it’s tradition — and she will wait there till the morrow. And those chuckle-headed peasants will wait with her, gawping all the time. Funny country. Imagine Mrs Siddons waiting on the stage of Drury Lane all night.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘But then,’ he added with a sidewards look, ‘this business of rescuing damsels in distress is always fraught with complications, what, Bold?’
John was a griff, but he was no fool. He realized that there had been some talk about him and Georgina. Did that explain the Collector’s attitude and his obvious relief that he was being sent away?
At the fort’s entrance, standing next to the sentries in their red coats and drill trousers, an undersized figure in the silver-grey of the Bengal Light Cavalry clicked to attention. He was bareheaded, his grey hair cropped short in the fashion common in the army when they had still worn wigs. In one hand he held what looked like a large family Bible and
in the other, a whip.
Major Tomkins’ face brightened when he saw the soldier, who even though standing rigidly to attention was so bow-legged that his knees refused to touch. ‘This is your riding master, Bold. Rum and Fornication Jones — Sergeant Shadrach Elihu Jones, renowned for his bible-thumping throughout the Army of Madras,’ Tomkins smirked and then snapped, ‘All right, Sergeant Jones, stand at ease. This is your new officer, Lieutenant Bold. He will be in command of the half squadron. Give him every possible assistance.’
Jones mustered the young man with his keen dark Welsh eyes, his tough old face searching, before he answered, ‘You can trust me, sir. I know my duty to God, the King — and the Company.’
‘Good for you, Sergeant Jones. All right, off you go now,’ Tomkins rapped, and the bandy-legged riding master moved away, while Tomkins stopped and said sotto voce, ‘Rum and Fornication, you no doubt ask, Bold? I’ll tell you. Because Sergeant Jones is one of those damned Welsh Methodists who is always preaching fire and brimstone when he’s sober. But when he’s drunk Methodism goes out of the window and it’s all rum and fornication. Then Jones is like the rest of the common soldiers, interested only in whores and grog.’ His smile vanished and just like Jones he looked at John searchingly. ‘Remember, Bold, you are to train your men hard and fast. That is urgent. But do make sure that they can fight, your life might depend upon it.’
The emphasis caught John’s attention. ‘Why my life only, sir?’
Suddenly Major Tomkins looked uneasy, as if he wished to say more but dare not. ‘This is a strange land, Bold, a strange violent land, full of deceit, treachery and betrayal. It is fitting and wise that in such a place, an officer is supported by men he can trust. Now good luck, John Bold.’
They shook hands firmly. Then Major Tomkins was gone, his shoulders slightly hunched as if to ward off a half-expected blow, leaving a puzzled young lieutenant squinting after him in the glare of the sun.
Bugles at Dawn Page 12
