The Faraway Drums (35 page)

Fifty yards ahead of the Ranee, several scales up the precedence, the Nawab looked down on the multitude from his gold-plated howdah. Out of his own State he was not sure whether to smile or wave or ignore the onlookers; he would have felt more at home with the crowd at Lord’s where one just waved one’s bat after scoring a half-century. He was a selfish man, but he was not unkind, so long as kindness did not cost him money he could ill-afford; he hoped that these poor coolies (though he did not think of the word
poor
in its economic context) would appreciate what Sankar and he and the others were trying to do for them. It would be a better India, Sankar had insisted; and he had tried hard to believe him. The wealth would not be spread more evenly, God be thanked; but less would go to the English and what was saved might finish up being shared amongst those less rich than the princes. Or so Sankar promised, though the Nawab knew he would feel no heartburn if Sankar could not keep his promise. The only promise he wanted kept was that he himself, a prince who was poor (he used the word this time in its economic context) should have all his debts wiped out and be given further loans to enable him to go on living as a prince should. He ran a jewelled hand over the side of the gold-plated howdah, fingered the pearls that hung from his neck. It was a pity they were all mortgaged to Sankar, a man who had only contempt for such necessities.

It amused him that he was the one who had been chosen to spend the half a million pounds to buy the guns from Krupps. He had always been extravagant with money; but Sankar had known he would never attempt to embezzle any of what he had been entrusted with. Sankar would kill him if he did such a thing.

“You are necessary to us,” Sankar had told him, “because you are one of those the English will least suspect. All your stupid devotion to their cricket and their other customs is just the camouflage we need. You are necessary, but never forget that you are expendable.”

“I don’t have to listen to your threats.” He was amazed, later, at the courage he had shown for a
minute
or two. “I can abdicate, let you take over Kalanpur and go and live in England.”

“What on? They won’t welcome paupers at the MCC. Who at Hurlingham would lend you a string of polo ponies? The English upper classes look after their own kind, much better than we do here. But they never waste charity on outsiders.”

Of course, he was an outsider: he had known that even in the most convivial moments in London and at country houses. He was sure he had true friends there, but then saw them turn away in his mind as he put them to the test. It just wasn’t cricket, he told himself petulantly, but he knew that it was life.

He had been appalled when he learned of the plot to kill the King. That had not even been mentioned in the plans of the revolutionary movement.

“Good God, you can’t do that!
Why
do you have to do it?”

“We want them to know we’re serious—we want
India
to know.”

“But why not the Viceroy?” He had always known that someone would have to die, though he had tried not to think about it. “He’s the symbol here, not the King.”

“No, it has to be the King, not his monkey.”

He had not been able to argue: the others had all been for the assassination. And now, this morning, Sankar was somewhere on the Chandni Chowk placing the two snipers, one on either side of the street, who were going to shoot the King. The Nawab felt sick and leaned sideways, as if the motion of the howdah had brought on landsickness and he was going to vomit over the side. The crowd on that side thought it was being greeted by this prince, whoever he was, and it raised a polite cheer. The Nawab, revived by this unexpected recognition, sat back. He consoled himself that he was so far down the scale of precedence that he would not see the assassination when it occurred.

Still further up the parade, riding just behind the King’s escort, were George Lathrop and Colonel Stacey. The latter was a short, stocky man from an infantry regiment and unaccustomed to horse-riding. His attention was divided between his fractious horse and looking for possible assassins, with the horse getting most of the attention. Lathrop, on the other hand, sat his horse as if he had been born in the saddle and gave all his attention to his surroundings.

They were coming into the Chandni Chowk now. The Old City, like a barracks specially spruced up for an inspection by visiting brass, had been given a new, if temporary, face for the King. Fountains that
hadn’
t flowed in a hundred years spouted and dribbled water from new mains; policemen stood by to discourage citizens who thought the glittering pools were public baths. The few trees had been trimmed, shrubs planted, ruins shaved of their beards of weeds; what couldn’t be renewed had been dressed with a foliage of bunting and flags. It may not all have been as splendid as in the days of Shah Jehan, but then nobody, least of all King George, missed those days. The King looked with regal modesty left and right as he rode along, inwardly proud in the knowledge that he was the first English monarch to visit the East since Richard Lion-Heart eight hundred years before. He would have been disturbed if he had known that so few of those in the parade and none of the spectators beside the road knew of or cared for the fact. He was already disturbed that so few of the crowd seemed to be looking at him but were looking at Hardinge riding behind him.

“What’s going on?” Stacey murmured to Lathrop. “The reception sounds a bit lukewarm.”

“His Majesty should have taken H.E.’s advice and ridden an elephant. Nobody is recognizing him. Listen to them—” He could hear the chatter in the crowd as they nodded at the Viceroy on his big black charger.
There is the Lord Sahib. But where is the King?

“That may be a good thing,” said Stacey, cursing his own horse, wishing
he
were on foot or even on an elephant. “Perhaps the assassins won’t know whom to go for.”

“Where’s Sankar? Is he further down the parade?”

“He didn’t put in an appearance.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Lathrop and almost worked his head off his shoulders as he craned right and left to scan the rooftops along the Chowk. He could see the armed men perched on the roofs of the buildings, he looked down and saw the policemen posted like stakes every ten yards along the route; but he felt uneasy, wanted to shout to the King to put spurs to his horse and gallop full tilt out to the royal camp. Instead, he thanked God, in whom he didn’t believe, that he was not a full-time equerry to the King.

In the royal coach, drawn by its six horses, the Queen put up her white parasol, spoiling the effect of the Golden Fan and the Golden State Umbrella held over her by the two
chuprassi
, in scarlet and gold uniforms, perched on the dickey of the coach. The Fan and the Umbrella were heavy and the
chuprassi
were weak-armed; the Fan and the Umbrella kept tilting backwards, giving no shade at all to the Queen. She had a proper respect for ceremony, but she was a practical woman and she was not going to get sun-burned.
Beside
her her Lady-in-Waiting, the Duchess of Devonshire, suffered the sun and hoped the next Coronation she attended would be in a more temperate clime.

Lord Durham, the equerry, sitting opposite the Queen, leaned forward. “This is the Chandni Chowk, ma’am. The street of goldsmiths and silversmiths.”

“Indeed? I’d like to see some of their work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Durham knew she would ask him again tomorrow: she never forgot a request or an order. He hoped the gold- and silversmiths would be in a generous mood.

Then the royal party was out of the Chandni Chowk and Lathrop breathed a sigh of relief. The King, safe in his ignorance of the designs on his life, rode on, irritated by the puzzling indifference of his Indian subjects.

IV

Queen Mary sat in a chair in the pink-and-blue silk-lined bedroom tent of the royal suite of six tents. Lord Durham, on the way into the royal camp, had told her that it covered 85 acres and she had been pleased at what she had seen. She had done a quick tour of the royal suite because she was a good housekeeper and she liked to see that George was comfortable. She had been particularly pleased at the King’s writing room with its mahogany table, beautifully carved chair, the white Bikanir carpet and the Persian rugs, though she had wondered who had put the small statue of Buddha on the mantelpiece. Probably some servant who didn’t know that George was the Head of the Church of England, which was careful of displaying even statues of Christ.

She had bathed and changed into a loose robe and wished for nothing more than a few hours to herself. She never resented the duties of being George’s Consort; rather, she delighted in them. But, though this was supposed to be the cool season, she was already finding India more than a little uncomfortable.

She glanced at the books that lay on the table beside her.
The Broken Road
, by A. E. W. Mason, biographies of Hastings and Dalhousie, stories by Rudyard Kipling: she had ordered the books to be packed before she left London. But she was not very interested in English life in India, though she did not think she would tell George that.

He came into the bedroom, sat down in another of the chintz-covered chairs. He wore slippers,
trousers,
a silk dressing-gown and a silk scarf. She loved to see him relaxed, to see him
private
; she had taught herself to separate him from the public figure. She looked at his fair brown hair, his neatly trimmed beard, his very red lips and the bright blue eyes that were his most attractive feature. Yes, she loved him dearly, even if she had loved his elder brother first.

“How do you think it went, May?” When they were alone he always called her by her private name.

“Very nicely, I thought. The crowds were so well-behaved. I don’t know why, but I was afraid there might have been a disturbance or two.”

“I suppose it was worthwhile.” He disliked foreign travel, unlike his father, who had delighted in it: possibly to get away from Grandmama. He also had no real taste for grand entertainment. But it was he who had suggested, out of a sense of duty, that he should come to India to be crowned here as Emperor. Grandmama, at Disraeli’s urging, had first assumed the title of Empress of India in 1877; but she would never have travelled further east than St. Paul’s Cathedral if it could have been avoided and certainly never to India. So he had insisted that he should come and he could not complain if the Indians had been less enthusiastic than he had expected. It seemed that when he had come here six years ago, as Prince of Wales, the reception had been much warmer. But then the crowds had been smaller and most of those English and eager for the opportunity to curtsey.

He looked at May, loving her, wondering if she should be worried by what was on his mind. She was the perfect Consort: she never meddled in affairs of State, but she was always there to support him when he was troubled. And he was troubled now. “May—Hardinge tells me we may have a disturbance or two before we go home.”

“One shouldn’t be surprised. Such a huge country—there are bound to be some malcontents. These princes do rather show off, as if they’re trying to out-do each other.”

“Not princes, confound it! Sorry—I shouldn’t be short-tempered. It’s the heat.” He got up, went to her and kissed the top of her head. “One or two of the princes do look like playing up. The Baroda chap for one.”

“Can’t you have his invitations withdrawn?”

“I suppose so. But if we have any opposition here, we’re not going to solve the problem by
withdrawing
invitations. That’s ladies’ tea party stuff.”

“Thank you, dear,” said the Queen, though she disliked tea parties.

He smiled and kissed the top of her head again. “Remember the tea party Hyderabad gave for us the last time we were here? All those stale cakes and the sour cream. I told you he died last August. Hardinge tells me it was alcoholism. I gather quite a few of these chaps suffer from it. Hardinge thinks it’s due to an excess of wives. No, he’s quite serious.”

She laughed. “Aren’t you fortunate? Only me to drive you to drink.”

They held hands, loving each other dearly. It was a circle of two that their children, back in England, could never quite break into.

V

That evening Prince Sankar re-appeared at the camp he was sharing with his cousin the Nawab. If one counted every tiny fiefdom ruled by a semi-independent chieftain there were 675 States represented at the Durbar. The word
durbar
, from the Persian
darbar
, meant, besides a gathering to pay homage, a meeting for taking administrative decisions; but no one, least of all the minor chieftains, would be invited to take any decisions at Delhi. Nonetheless, every one of the rulers wanted to be at the Durbar and every one of them thought he was entitled to his own piece of turf at the gathering. But the government, careful that the Durbar would not spread out over the entire United Provinces, had doled out accommodation as it doled out honours. The seventy-three princes entitled to salutes of more than eleven guns and the prefix Highness had been allotted camps befitting their station, the largest belonging to the premier prince, the newly-ascended Nizam of Hyderabad. As the doling-out went down the line of precedence the allotments got smaller and smaller; finally the camps had been shared between related princes or at least compatible ones. The Nawab of Kalanpur and the Rajah of Pandar, neither of whom was entitled to a gun salute or even a rifle volley, and who were only called Highness as a courtesy and never at official functions, had to make do on a two-acre lot. Their horses and the Nawab’s elephants were quartered in a common stabling area and the Nawab, feeling claustrophobic in such a confined space as he and Sankar had been given, had asked if he might billet out his wives in some common
zenana
area. But the Commissioner for Accommodation, a Presbyterian with one wife and she one too many, had firmly told him he should have
left
his wives at home. Which the Nawab, in view of the way things were going, now wished he had done.