Henry Hardinge
Anthony Dale
Fredrick Currie
Bomi Kapadia
H.M. Elliot
Keith Stevenson
Henry Lawrence
Zul Vellani
Sher Singh
Roger C.B. Pereira
Dalip Singh
Ranjit Chowdhry
Baba
Minoo Chhoi
Rani Jindan Kaur
Farida Sonavala
Sardar Lal Singh
Bell deSouza
Sardar Tej Singh
Francis A. Menezes
Lt. Herbert Edwardes
Cyrus Bharucha
Capt. James Abbot
Homi Mulla
Lt. Harry Lumsden
Yohan Jeffereis
‘Go out’, said the Hero-makers
and the men behind them. ‘Be
another Henry Lawrence. Do
your duty … and if necessary die …’
MICHAEL EDWARDES, The Necessary Hell
Characters
[In order of appearance]
Act One Scene 1
The Governor-General’s camp on the banks of the Sutlej, halfway between Lahore and Delhi. It is 20 March 1846, a month after the battle of Sobraon, better known as the First Sikh War. Hardinge, Currie and Elliot are present inside a tent. A half hidden coolie is drowsily pulling the cord of the swaying punkah. In the far right-hand corner are a number of hammock-like chairs with arm-pieces to rest weary legs. They have an attachment screwed on to the right arm-piece which swings out to hold a glass. Hardinge has a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in another. Currie and Elliot look on solicitously.
HARDINGE: Where the devil is Lawrence?
ELLIOT: He should be here any minute, sir.
HARDINGE: What the devil is the time?
ELLIOT: Eleven o’clock, sir.
HARDINGE: Currie, what about the Peshawar despatch?
CURRIE: Yes, it’s come in, sir. I am afraid, sir, there’s …
HARDINGE: (Interrupting.) Koi hai?
ELLIOT: I’ll get it, sir.
(Replaces Hardinge’s glass.)
HARDINGE: Yes, carry on, Currie.
CURRIE: I am afraid there’s bad news, sir.
HARDINGE: What?
CURRIE: From the border.
HARDINGE: Which one?
CURRIE: Frontier, sir. Peshawar.
HARDINGE: Oh!
(Pause.)
Damn these bloody tribes! Damn this bloody country. Damn the whole world …
(Pause.)
This brandy’s no good.
ELLIOT: It’s recently come in from London, sir. Travellers’.
HARDINGE: It’s the devilish air then. Everything in India is second-rate. Even travellers’ best becomes second-rate in India.
CURRIE: Even the men become second-class in India, sir.
HARDINGE: What sort of a bloke is Lawrence?
ELLIOT: Never seen him myself. But I’m told he’s quite a character.
CURRIE: One can hardly credit what one sees, sir.
(Mockingly.)
He is practically a native. If I may say so sir, I think his younger brother, John, is more the sort of person you need for this job.
HARDINGE: How many Lawrences are there in the Punjab?
ELLIOT: Three, sir.
HARDINGE: Good God! Who’s the Lawrence of the Punjab?
ELLIOT: Henry, I believe, sir.
HARDINGE: Are you sure?
ELLIOT: Yes, sir.
HARDINGE: Damn it, we don’t want the wrong man. Who’s this younger one—what’s his name?
CURRIE: John, sir.
HARDINGE: Why is he better?
CURRIE: He’s a regular sort, you know. Civil servant, Haileybury, efficient, proven record, very Christian, proper, doesn’t mix with the natives …
HARDINGE: (Interrupting.) What makes you think we need a ‘regular sort?’
CURRIE: (Confused.) Well, well … ah, we always need regular sorts.
HARDINGE: What do you think, Elliot?
ELLIOT: Well sir, the reputation of this man is phenomenal.
HARDINGE: Which man, Elliot?
ELLIOT: Henry, sir.
HARDINGE: (Shortly.) Good God, which one is Henry?
ELLIOT: The Lawrence, sir.
HARDINGE: Quite, quite. Now Elliot, you were saying?
ELLIOT: I was saying, sir, that this man has built a phenomenal reputation. Just two years on the border as a minor clerk with the Revenue Survey, and he’s become a legend. I believe he’s on first-name terms with most of the nobility of the Punjab. They swear by him, and the peasantry of the Ferozepur district think he’s some kind of a saviour.
HARDINGE: Is he a soldier?
ELLIOT: Yes, sir.
HARDINGE: What’s his rank?
ELLIOT: Major, sir. But he’s been due a promotion for some time.
CURRIE: Precisely, sir. You can’t appoint such a junior man to this post. Why, you’ll be superseding half the British Army and alienating the whole British establishment.
HARDINGE: Hang the British establishment!
(Lawrence enters. He is forty years old, but looks younger, has a long, brooding face, some grey hairs, and a Van Dyck beard. He stands five feet ten, very light in build—almost a lathy figure. He doesn’t look a soldier. He wears his regimental uniform, but not smartly; his boots could be better polished; his hair could be better combed. His face is burnt almost as black as a native’s and, but for his uniform, he might be easily mistaken for a North Indian. Altogether, his appearance in the Governor-General’s Darbar has shattered the brandy-and-elevenses atmosphere and the occupants of the room look suspiciously as if they are about to receive a stranger from another land and not one of their own race.)
ELLIOT: Mr Henry Lawrence, sir.
(Pause.)
HARDINGE: (Looking helpless.) Oh. Well, I’m blessed.
LAWRENCE: (Quite at ease.) Sir?
HARDINGE: What’s the meaning of this, man? Just look at you.
(Pointing at him.)
Did you sleep in these clothes?
CURRIE: (Mockingly.) Perhaps Mr Lawrence did not find time to change, sir.
HARDINGE: If I didn’t need you, young man, I would have you shipped back home at once.
LAWRENCE: Sir …
HARDINGE: Why, this is disgraceful. You look like a bloody native. Your hair needs cutting. Your boots need shining, your shirt needs buttons—(Softly.)
I hope your breeches stay up.
CURRIE: (Contemptuously.) Your Excellency, we should be thankful that
Mr Lawrence is at least wearing his regimental colours. Normally, I am told, he finds native dress more comfortable.
HARDINGE: (Astonished.) What? … what, what, brandy! Elliot, some brandy … Koi hai? (Elliot replaces Hardinge’s tumbler.)
LAWRENCE: May I sit down, sir?
HARDINGE: Certainly. (Realizing.)
What, what?
LAWRENCE: Thank you, sir.
HARDINGE: Quite, quite.
(Pause.)
Vile stuff
(Takes another swig.)
… Elliot bring the Punjab brief.
(Elliot does so.)
Tch, tch.
(Muttering.)
Messy business, the Punjab.
LAWRENCE: Sir?
HARDINGE: Lawrence, you’ve been in the Punjab longer than probably anyone I know. What do you think of the Treaty of Lahore we signed last week?
LAWRENCE: What treaty?
(Quick glances between Hardinge, Currie, and Elliot.)
HARDINGE: Come on man, you haven’t heard of the Treaty of Lahore?
Currie, didn’t you send him a copy?
CURRIE: There was no time, sir. It was signed on Tuesday afternoon and Mr Lawrence had already
