Nizams Daughters

Locke’s gun thundered again and yet more roundshot felled lines of men in ghastly disorder. Then came the bugle, and the jemadar charged with his dozen lancers into the dazed mass, for whom now there was no hope of resistance, only flight or death.

For many it was both. No matter which way they ran — forward, left or right — they were met with fire or the lance. Or, for those who tried to clamber back over the bodies of their fellows, strewn across the maidan like pebbles thrown about the sand, there were the multiple bags of grape which Locke was now firing with double charges that sent the gun jumping ten feet in its recoil. Those sepoys who, in this economical yet lethal crossfire, were able to recover their individual senses began to prostrate themselves in abject surrender. One way or another, in a few more minutes there was no-one left standing in the maidan.

Hervey knew what would happen next if he did not take action at once. The exhilaration — the relief — of being alive and in command of the battlefield would turn to a dangerous torpor. If he let go now he might never be able to rouse his eighty stout hearts again. They must not wait for the sun to rise, when those mutineers not prostrate before them would see just how few they were. He set about quartering and combing the maidan with the Rajpoots and corralling the surrendered in his new allies’ former prison, using the lancers as drovers — all the while covering the entrance with the galloper gun, though it had little ammunition left. As day broke — rapidly, as always — they had cleared the maidan of the living and halfdead, leaving the lifeless — already the object of swarms of ants and flies — to impede the next wave, and were braced for another attack. Of the infantry at Jhansikote, sixty stood with Hervey, three hundred were secured in the granary, and as many were lying in the maidan. There might be a thousand yet to account for. He knew he could not suppose his position as strong as before: the Rajpoots had plenty of ball cartridge, it was true, but the gun had next to nothing and they no longer had the advantage of night. Spirits were high, though: they had not lost a man. The mutineers had scarce fired a shot.

Only now did it occur to him: why had they not fired? Why, indeed, were there no skirmishers harrying them from the walls? He ran forward, cursing, to examine a musket lying on the ground. It wasn’t loaded, or even primed. He picked up another — the same. And another, and another — all without charge or ball! So their leaders were going to issue powder and shot only as they marched, said Hervey aloud; or perhaps only when they reached Chintalpore. Such was the insurance that perfidy required! ‘The race is to the swift,’ said Hervey aloud.

Johnson furrowed his brow. ‘Tha’s not quoting scripture again, sir?’

‘I am,’ replied Hervey. ‘Indeed I am challenging it — Ecclesiastes no less!’

His groom looked bemused.

‘Ecclesiastes — Solomon’s great work on the vanity of man: “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong… but time and chance happeneth to them all.” Time and chance happeneth to all, Johnson!’

‘Very pretty, Captain ’Ervey, but where does it get us next?’

‘It takes us into the cantonment. It takes us right into their lines. And we shall not fire another round! Fetch Jessye and ask the jemadar and his troopers to assemble!’

XIII. LOST SOULS

Chintalpore, that evening

With an escort of two sowars and Private Johnson, Locke rode hard for the palace, through the heat of the afternoon, and arrived as the sun was beginning its descent beyond the hills west of Chintalpore. He had ridden through the city, and it was not its customary bustle. The nervousness among merchants and beggars alike was everywhere evident, for fifteen hundred mutineers descending on them was not a fair prospect. The palace was even more nervous. The water level in the lake that now served as a moat around three sides was higher than when they had left — testimony to Selden’s address in attending to the defences — and the droog had piles of teak logs at intervals along its slope, secured by ropes which would be cut in the face of the advancing sepoys. A steady procession of elephants was still bringing logs as Locke and Johnson slowed their mounts to a trot for the climb to the palace gates. Once inside they found the rajah in his menagerie, alone, seemingly reconciled to the cataclysm about to befall his house. When he saw them it was with heightened despair, for their bloodstained clothes and grimy faces spoke of defeat. But they did not look like men who had fled slaughter, the enemy pressing hard on their heels. ‘Mr Locke,’ exclaimed the rajah, shaking his head in confusion, ‘I had imagined—’

The raj kumari appeared, as close to running as a princess might. Locke saw little point in waiting on ceremony. ‘Your Highness, the mutiny is put down. The ringleaders are restrained, and the rest have been disarmed and are confined to the cantonment. A company of Rajpoots remained loyal. Their help was capital: without it all might have been lost. Captain Hervey remains with them. Are your cavalry returning, sir?’

The rajah was speechless. His disbelief showed clearly as he turned to Selden, also come running, redfaced and sweating. ‘Do we yet know if they return, Mr Selden?’

‘We do, Your Highness,’ he replied, gasping for breath. ‘They will be here by dawn tomorrow.’ And then he turned anxiously to Locke: ‘Hervey — is he unhurt then?’

‘Yes, we suffered little but a scratch — the entire force.’

The rajah looked even more incredulous (and Selden scarcely less so). ‘Please tell us of it, Mr Locke,’ he said, motioning him to a bower-seat close by and beckoning his khansamah to bring refreshment.

Locke recounted the story with such vivid grasp of detail that neither Selden, the raj kumari nor the rajah made a sound during its telling. He spoke of himself only when it was necessary for narrative completeness, he praised the jemadar and the dafadar, and many sowars by name, gave honour to the Rajpoots, especially their subedar, and even included Private Johnson in the paean. But throughout his account shone Hervey’s resolution, his resourcefulness and courage. ‘When dawn came,’ he continued, scarcely able to believe it himself, ‘Captain Hervey rode with a dozen sowars deep into the mutineers’ lines and demanded they surrender and throw themselves on Your Highness’s mercy. He had concluded they had muskets but no ammunition — but, even so, they had bayonets enough to make pincushions of us all. He told them that discipline was the soul of an army and that they had lost their souls when they had set themselves against Your Highness’s authority. He told them they could never hope for paradise if they didn’t redeem themselves now as soldiers.’

‘And they took him at his word?’ asked Selden doubtfully.

‘He also said that if they did not surrender at once he would kill every one of them.’

‘A skilful reinforcement of his appeal to their nobility,’ smiled the veterinarian.

‘Yes: he led them onto the maidan in formed companies and made them pile arms before attending their wounded and building pyres for the dead. They even gave up their leaders and those who had killed the European officers.’

The rajah expressed himself humbled by this account of the bravery of his loyal sowars and Rajpoots — and, even more, of those who were not his subjects but his guests. He turned to the raj kumari. ‘What say you of this, my daughter?’ he asked softly.

‘I say that we are ever in the debt of Captain Hervey,’ she replied, though without enthusiasm. Indeed, almost with a hint of discouragement.

The rajah turned to Locke again. ‘And was there any indication of the cause that made my sipahis rise against my officers?’

‘There was, sir,’ replied Locke firmly.

The rajah waited silently for enlightenment.

Locke looked about to see exactly who his audience now comprised.

‘Come, Mr Locke,’ urged the rajah, ‘you may speak as you find. All here are my loyal servants.’

Locke was uncertain on that point. Nevertheless he would conclude his report. ‘It appears that the sepoys’ batta has been withheld these past twelve months.’

The rajah looked puzzled.