The Sabre's Edge (25 page)

Emma sighed. 'I hope, therefore, that the Company will remain in ignorance of its treasure.'

Somervile touched her arm, for him a public gesture of unusual warmth.

'Good afternoon Mr Somervile, sir. Good afternoon, ma'am.' Armstrong's greeting recalled the two of them.

'Good afternoon, Serjeant-Major - and Mrs Armstrong,' replied Somervile, with a look of genuine pleasure.

Emma smiled as wide. 'Oh, please, don't on my account,' she said to Caithlin as she curtsied. Emma's Indian maids might bow gracefully, but they never curtsied, and, in any case, she could never think of Caithlin Armstrong as of inferior status. 'Especially, my dear, not in your condition.'

Caithlin and her husband glanced with customary pride at the swelling beneath her dress.

'I should say in
our
condition,' added Emma, with the same look of pride.

'Oh, Mrs Somervile,' exclaimed Caithlin, her melodious Cork never stronger. 'How happy I am for you! Is that why Miss Joynson is to be your companion, then, ma'am?'

No fact remained in the possession of but two people in Calcutta for more than a day. 'It is,' said Emma, agreeably. She could not very well add 'ostensibly', although indeed she might. Hervey's suggestion of taking in Frances Joynson for a while had come at a propitious time, though Emma certainly felt in no need of a companion.

Somervile himself was looking rather embarrassed, especially since Armstrong was smiling in a manly, confidential sort of way. There were affairs, indeed, that transcended all barriers. That did not trouble him in the slightest - Somervile was more impatient of the confines of rank than most men - but 'country matters', as he was still wont to call them, he was not at home with.

'What is the news from the east, sir?' asked Armstrong, thinking to save further talk of domestic affairs.

Somervile shook his head. 'Not good, I'm afraid, Serjeant-Major. The business is taking longer than was imagined.' He did not say by whom imagined, nor that there were some who never imagined it otherwise - the commander-in-chief, for one. 'And I fear that our embarrassment there will encourage others to . .
.'
(he noticed both wives listening intently) 'to . . . become rather impudent.'

The band had struck up a lively jig, and the commander-in-chief had rejoined the major. 'A capital display, Joynson; capital. My compliments to you. But I fear I must return to my desk. The despatches from Rangoon this morning were not at all felicitous.'

'But you still do not think the Sixth will be needed, Sir Edward?'

'No, I think not. If Campbell can break himself out of Rangoon then all should be well, even if takes some weeks more - months, even. And break out he's bound to do at some stage. But the country isn't suitable to develop cavalry operations. I've sent him reinforcements, and if need be, for escorts and the like, I'll send one of the Madras light horse.'

Paget began taking his leave, shaking hands with Mr and Mrs Lincoln, and several others besides, his smile in contrast with the earnestness of his manner with Joynson. As they reached the door he turned again to Joynson, and his former look returned. 'Things are by no means settled among the country powers hereabouts, and our difficulties in the east will only encourage them. I want a handy force here in Bengal if trouble ensues. I have to be able to count on King's cavalry. You'll have the Sixth in best condition, Eustace?'

'I'm sure we understand that, General.'

Sir Edward nodded. 'Hervey will soon be at Dehli, I should imagine?'

'The troop left on Tuesday. Hervey goes tomorrow.'

Sir Edward nodded again. 'A good choice, Hervey. Ochterlony will like him.'

Joynson raised an eyebrow. 'And what's equally to the point, General, Hervey will like Ochterlony!'

Sir Edward smiled. 'Oh, yes, indeed. That is equally important!'

CHAPTER
TEN

THE RESIDENT Dehli,

three weeks later

S
ir David Ochterlony, the Honourable East India Company's political resident at the court of Shah Mohammed Akbar Rhize Badshah, the Great Mughal, was sixty-six years old. He had entered the Bengal army when he was not yet twenty and had spent his entire service in Hindoostan. He had fought the French, the Marathas and the Nipalis, and each time he had added garlands to his reputation as both a soldier and a diplomatist. He had been a major-general since
1814
and resident since
1803.
His name was held in the highest esteem - venerated, even - throughout India, although it was the opinion of some members of the Bengal council, and Lord Amherst himself, that his retirement was overdue. Indeed, if any man gave the lie to the oft-heard native lament that a grey hair on the head of a European was never to be seen in India, it was Ochterlony - although, ironically, he had been born and bred in America.

Hervey reported to the residency towards the

end of the afternoon, within an hour of entering the great old Mughal capital, but already he had formed the strongest impression of decay and ruin in Dehli - of desolation, even. The city walls, half of stone, half of brick, were in poor repair, tombs and mausoleums were everywhere in dilapidation, grass grew long all about. In places there was a smell of corruption as bad as in Calcutta, and his guide told him there was not a house from where the jackal's cry could not be heard of a night. The centuries of depredations, the sackings and the looting, the sieges and the slaughter had brought the once sumptuous imperial city to little more than a tract of dreary and disconsolate tombs.

'Sahib, here nothing lasts,' said Hervey's guide. 'There is much tribulation and little joy. In years past, the living thought only of reposing after death in splendid sepulchres, and their descendants have thought only of destroying what was intended for eternity.'

And Hervey had half shivered in the chill of that judgement.

But the guide had not been melancholy. He had spoken with the indifferent acceptance of fate that was the mark of his religion. And indeed there was cheer in his judgement, for he told Hervey that things would have been immeasurably worse without Sir David Ochterlony. 'Ochterlony-sahib is greatest man in all of empire after Great Mughal himself, sahib.'

Hervey considered himself well used by now to native blandishments, whether from gholam or pandit. Perhaps, though, in the living memory of Hindoostan - and certainly that of his guide

-
Sir David Ochterlony had a reasonable claim to greatness. It had been he who had kept Jashwant Rao, the Holkar of Indore, the most powerful of the Maratha chiefs, at bay two decades before, while the Wellesleys made war on the Scindia and the Bhonsla. Greatness, indeed, did not seem too inapt a word as Hervey now contemplated the residency, a classical
palazzo
on Chandnee chouk near the Lahore gate. It spoke of a confident power, for it had nothing to do with the art of the empire of Tamerlane, only that of the Honourable Company.

As he rode up to its gates, the quarter-guard turned out and presented arms. The havildar saluted and stood his ground, so Hervey dismounted and obliged him by inspecting his men

-
smart Bengali
sipahis
,
red-breasted, bare-legged, straps and pouches whitened, muskets burnished. Then a young ensign, very fair-skinned, came. He wore a frock coat and forage hat, as if on picket duty at St James's, and he saluted as sharply, introducing himself and then conducting Hervey to Sir David Ochterlony's quarters. It was, truly, just as if he were arriving at the Horse Guards again.

For weeks Hervey had wondered what he would find at the residency, so many had been the stories. But all he knew for certain was that Sir David was an elderly major-general, and so he composed himself accordingly: the usual military formalities, the stuff of any general headquarters - a brief interview, the presentation of compliments, and so on and so on. But instead of being bidden to wait in an ante-room and then being announced at the door of the resident's office, as he would have expected, the ensign showed him at once into a sitting room furnished in the Mughal style with cushions and divans about the floor, in the middle of which sat a barefoot major-general in a bamboo armchair, wearing a florid silk dressing gown, with a hookah to his mouth.

Hervey rallied quickly enough. 'Good afternoon, Sir David. I am Captain Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons.' He had considered the mode of address carefully, concluding that as Sir David Ochterlony was the political resident it was more appropriate to address him by that style rather than as 'General'.

Sir David did not reply at once, nodding as if in a dream.

Hervey stood at attention but removed his cap, uncertain how the interview would proceed. Without doubt, there was here before him what in Calcutta they called a 'mofussil eccentric', one who had been overlong in native India. Any reference to military rank seemed incongruous, and the display of military normality that had attended his arrival only served to make the situation seem more absurd. It was not entirely true to say that his heart sank, but it was not nearly so light as when he had begun his assignment. 'I have the honour to report for duty, three officers and fifty-three dragoons at your service, sir.'

Sir David took the pipe from his mouth and beckoned a khitmagar to bring a chair. 'And a pipe,' he called after him in Urdu, or something very like it, for Hervey grasped its meaning.

'No, thank you, sir. I am, in truth, rather parched.'

'My dear boy, my dear boy!' Sir David took the pipe from his mouth again and bellowed,
^‘
Quai
hai!
Sherbet for Captain Hervey-sahib!'

Hervey took his seat and waited to be spoken
to,
doubts crowding in apace.

The silence continued. Sir David, pipe to his mouth once more, was content to sit and contemplate the new arrival.

At length he seemed satisfied. He took the pipe from his mouth and nodded. 'How are things in Calcutta?'

It was a not unreasonable question, except that Hervey had scarcely moved beyond the confines of the garrison save to the Somerviles' house at Fort William since coming from Rangoon. He trusted that the resident had no more appetite for drawing-room gossip than he. 'In as far as I can say, Sir David, the war with Ava goes badly. There is news, or rumour perhaps would be the better description, that Lord Combermere shall succeed Sir Edward Paget next year. Beyond that I fear there is little I know.'

Sir David's expression of surprise was very pronounced. 'Calcutta has become an exceedingly dull place these late years if that is the extent of your intelligence!'

Hervey sighed inwardly; this was very like keeping company with an ageing parent. He would have to try hard not to become by turns impatient or indulgent. 'In truth, Sir David, I have been laid low these past months, and confined largely to the military lines.'

Sir David looked vexed. 'Laid low? Laid low with what?'

Hervey forced himself to remember that he was speaking to the hero of Nipal. 'I received a ball in my shoulder at Rangoon, Sir David, and thereafter contracted the fever.'

Sir David's mien changed at once. 'Rangoon? Tell me of it.'

It was like the stirring of a sleepy old lion - at first the mere twitch of an eyelid, a flick of the tail, until by degrees the huge beast was on all fours and circling with intermittent grunts and snarls. Hervey spared him nothing. At the end of his account the resident shook his head and sighed. 'That won't do; it won't do at all!'

'I wonder, sir, if I may have more sherbet?'

Sir David scolded the khitmagar for his inattention, as a lion might swipe at an errant cub. 'You will stay to dinner, Hervey, and lodge here. You will no doubt wish to see your troop properly billeted, but your lieutenant may easily exercise command.'

Sir David, for all his eccentric attire, had by now acquired a wholly commanding bearing. Hervey saw no point in protesting. It threw onto Perry an undue burden of society with Green, but that was the way of it: he was captain and he had other concerns. 'I am very obliged, Sir David. But I had better send for my small kit. I have nothing but . . .'

'Oh, we shall not dress,' said Sir David, airily. 'Not in this month. I'll have the khansamah bring you a robe.' He looked at him intently. 'And at dinner I shall tell you of where
our
troubles may lie in the months ahead.'

Hervey bathed and then lay down on the narrow divan in his otherwise ample quarters. All about was marble, like the palace at Chintalpore, but whereas at the Rajah of Chintal's seat the air was full of intrigue and menace, here it was peace, although in the resident's words there was a promise of action. He began looking forward to his commission once more. Dereliction there might be - in so many ways Dehli reminded him of Rome - but he sensed it could fascinate. In any case, it was good to be away from the Calcutta garrison, a station full of left-behinds while hounds were hard at work elsewhere.