Nizams Daughters

Selden was yet more sceptical. ‘But batta is an allowance, paid only when a sepoy must fend for himself — when there are no quarters or rations. And even then the money is held by the havildar-majors, who pay the merchants direct. The sepoy scarcely ever sees it.’

The rajah protested that the cantonments at Jhansikote were newly built, and that his sepoys should not have wanted for food or shelter.

‘Just so, sir,’ agreed Selden.

‘But it appears, as well,’ continued Locke (he had not thought any practice so elaborate could exist outside his own service), ‘that the sepoys have been placed under stoppages for quartering and rations. This they would not have objected to had they been paid batta.’

The rajah looked more sad than angry. ‘How might my own soldiers believe I would ill-serve them in this way? Who is responsible for this, Mr Selden?’

‘I could not immediately conclude, Your Highness,’ replied Selden, appearing still to be astonished by the revelation. ‘There might be several, but it is probable that all are now dead. I shall begin at once — with your leave — to investigate the matter.’

The rajah said he would be obliged. ‘Is there anything more, Mr Locke? I am eager to know what we may do to restore the peace that we hitherto enjoyed.’

‘Sir, Captain Hervey pledged that every sepoy would receive a pardon if he had committed no direct violence against an officer. He has told them they must swear to serve for one year without pay in order to regain their honour. And all, indeed, were swearing thus before the sadhu as I left. But he believes that if you were to go there in person and release them from that part of their oath binding them to serve without pay then they would be doubly beholden to you.’

The rajah had no inclination to dispute Hervey’s command of the circumstances. Indeed, he was impressed by his contriving this magnanimity. Yet he had his doubts. ‘Why did the Rajpoots not mutiny likewise? Were they not deprived of their batta too?’

‘I do not wholly understand this, Your Highness,’ began Locke hesitantly, ‘but the Rajpoots seem to believe they are in the service of the Maharana of Mewar, albeit seconded to yourself.’

The rajah sighed and raised his eyebrows sadly. ‘My brother-in-law. Yes, one company of Rajpoots comprised part of the dowry of my late and most honoured wife. It seems that, even in death, she has been my deliverance.’

‘I am perplexed, however,’ said Selden, ‘that the rissalahs seem to have been insusceptible to the cause of the mutiny.’

‘It would appear, Your Highness,’ replied Locke, ‘that in their case no quartering or other charges were ever levied.’

‘And what might therefore be the feeling of my sowars — and Rajpoots — when I tell the sepoys at Jhansikote that I will take them back into service? Might they not be resentful that they serve loyally on no better terms than those who have broken their trust?’

‘Captain Hervey supposed that you would ask that question, sir,’ replied Locke, unbuttoning a pocket.

‘And what was his answer?’ asked the rajah.

He reached inside the pocket and pulled out a folded note. ‘He refers you to this, sir.’

The rajah took the paper and read.

Sir,

St Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter 20 — the labourers in the vineyard. And increase of pay for lancers and Rajpoots.

M.H.

Capt.

The merest suggestion of a smile came to his lips. ‘What an eminently practical faith has Captain Hervey. Excuse me, gentlemen, if you will; I have things on which to reflect. Mr Locke, I cannot begin to express my gratitude. Mr Selden, would you please make whatever arrangements are necessary.’

Hervey returned to Chintalpore late next day. The rissalahs had arrived that morning and he had been pleased — and confident — to leave command of Jhansikote, and more especially its prisoners, in the hands of Captain Steuben; and, too, of Subedar Mhisailkar, who had ridden hard (as perhaps only a Maratha could) to join them as soon as the native doctors had been able to staunch the wounds about his head and body. Hervey did not doubt that the ringleaders would, and should, face execution, but he had insisted that it should not be carried out summarily — contrary to Locke’s urging of robust naval discipline. Instead he wished for trial by some duly appointed tribunal. He knew not by what articles and regulations these men served, but he supposed there must be some procedure akin to the court martial even in Chintal. Locke had argued that there was but one decision to be made — the firing squad or the hangman’s rope. And Hervey had not been without sympathy for that sentiment, especially after seeing how the European officers and their families had been butchered. But he sensed that a display of ceremony, of gravity, in the exercising of military discipline would have a greater, more enduring, effect than would the mere exercise of superior force. The latter might easily be countered by greater force at some time in the future, whereas the former might speak to something deeper in the sepoys’ character.

The rajah, not unnaturally, wished that Hervey be at once feted, but seeing his pulled-down condition allowed him instead to retire to his apartments. There he bathed and lay a long time thinking of what he must severally write in the letters now long overdue. It had been two days only since the affair with the raj kumari in the forest, but it seemed an age. He must write to Henrietta to lay before her his absolute devotion. Until this were done his heart was still unfaithful. But first it was his duty to make a further report to the Duke of Wellington, for now the situation was materially changed. The rajah had seen the nizam’s hand at Jhansikote, and the pretext of the batta did nothing now, in Hervey’s view, to hide it. He knew sufficient of the state of affairs in Haidarabad, albeit entirely from third parties, to warn the duke that his expectation of a cooperating alliance might not be as favourable as he had hoped.

He had also to write to Fort George to reacquaint them with the parlous condition of the rajah’s domain. Its contiguity with both the nizam’s and the Company’s must render Chintal of especial significance — as, indeed, the collector had indicated. He would now urge Philip Lucie to suggest to the Madras council that sympathetic overtures be made to the rajah, to offer him the Company’s protection. And then he might with honour quit Chintal and continue on the duke’s mission. Concerning the jagirs, he expected Selden to act without further delay.

But the letter to Henrietta — how should that be? What weight ought he to place on what passed in the forest? Was its remembrance to him grievous, its burden intolerable? Was his guilt encompassed sufficiently by those words from the General Confession? Or might he have to seek specific absolution, as his Prayer Book required? In truth, it was almost as nothing now. The sudden return to the simple essentials of his profession — the sabre in the hand — somehow ordered things clearly and set them into proper perspective. For the past six months and more he had scarcely been a soldier. He had skulked in the shadows, as it were, jeopardizing his soldier’s honour. And honour was not divisible: a lady might not partially lose her honour, nor a soldier likewise. If he lived in the shadows then he would do things which did not bear light shining on them.

There was a knock at the door and, before he could answer, the raj kumari entered. He sprang to his feet and expressed himself certain that it was not proper she should be there.

‘Captain Hervey, do you have so little regard for me — or yourself — that you would send me away without hearing what I came to say?’

‘Forgive me, madam; I merely thought it best that…’ His voice trailed off, allowing her to take the initiative once more.

‘Captain Hervey, in India there are many demons which do battle with Shiva. They take possession of the mind and the body. Do not suppose that in the forest you or I were master or mistress of ourselves. We had intruded on the hamadryads, observed their most secret rituals of courtship, and in doing so had become possessed by their spirits.’

Here indeed was a convenient religion — one that might account no-one responsible for his actions. Hervey was unsure of his response. Besides, the notion that it had not been the raj kumari who had writhed beside him in the forest, but instead a spirit of that forest, was hardly flattering to his manhood. He saw Henrietta in that dark