The Faraway Drums (18 page)

“
You haven’t read your Warren Hastings. The world is supported by an elephant, who stands on a tortoise, who stands on water.”

“That is one of our sayings,” said Mahendra. “General Hastings stole it, as you have stolen everything else.”

“Oh, I say, don’t let’s start that, Bobs old chap,” said the Nawab. “Even with the price of elephants what it is, we haven’t done too badly.”

Bridie had heard the rich of America, riding in their Pierce-Arrows and Rolls-Royces, complain of what the government, their
own
government, had stolen from them. The rich, it seemed, were more put upon than the poor.

In the late afternoon the road wound down through a thick stand of bamboo, then straightened up suddenly as if to mirror a traveller’s surprise. Ahead of them, as if the road were a driveway running up to its compound gates, was a large
dak
bungalow, a bare flagpole standing on the ragged lawn in front of it like an exclamation point.

“Home,” said Lady Westbrook in the coach, gazing up past the riders ahead of her.

“Home?” said the Baron, riding backwards, twisting awkwardly to look over his shoulder.

“I lived here thirty, no forty, years ago. When my husband was political adviser to Mala’s father.”

“It’s so close to Simla. Do you come down here at all?”

“Never. It was like all the
dak
houses, they were never really homes. One was always being moved on. We carried our gardens with us, in pots. I’ve carted chrysanthemums and geraniums from one end of India to the other. One carted a lot of other things, too, of course . . .” She meant memories, but she did not feel sentimental enough to mention them.

Servants came running out of the house as the caravan, concertina-ing together, came to a halt before the low-fenced compound. The road, it could be seen now, turned at right angles and ran along the front of the compound, to disappear into some ragged pines.

A butler, in white coat and red turban, welcomed the visitors. No, there was no sahib in residence. As His Highness knew, this bungalow was for sahibs of the Raj on circuit; but as he also knew, no sahibs came on circuit on this road any more. The butler sounded critical and regretful, but it was all said with bowed head. And it was said to
him
, Mahendra, because so far the butler hadn’t noticed who was in the
coach
further down the caravan.

“Prepare rooms for eight people,” said Mahendra. “The biggest two for myself and the Ranee.”

“The Ranee! She is with you?” The butler raised his head, saw his mistake and went scuttling down to the coach, where he pressed his hands even more tightly together and bowed his head even lower to make up for his lapse.

“Bloody crawler,” said Ahearn and looked around for rebel support but there was none.

Mahendra got down from his horse, dropping the reins for some bearer to pick up and, stiff-legged as a stilt-walker, strode up on to the wide verandah and into the house. Farnol helped Bridie down from her horse, studiously averting his gaze as she rubbed her sore rump.

“Would you rather ride in the coach from here on? Perhaps I can get Mahendra to let you use the victoria.”

“We’ll see.”

The bungalow was no palace, but it had its comforts. Lady Westbrook got stiffly down from the coach and looked at the rows of flower-pots that lined either side of the drive like upturned fezzes left behind by beheaded Turks. “Nothing in them. You could often tell what sort of family you were going to visit by what they grew in their pots. I can remember one family who grew nothing but small cacti, just like their children.”

There were not enough rooms to give everyone a room of his own. The Ranee, Mahendra and the Nawab each had one. Bridie shared with Lady Westbrook, Farnol with the Baron. The Mondays, recognized even by the butler as the genuine outsiders, were given the last and smallest room. The butler looked at Karim and Ahearn, not quite sure where he should put them.

Farnol told him. “They will eat in the kitchen with you, Buhandar. When we go to bed, they will sleep in the hall here, one inside the front door, the other inside the back door.”

Buhandar, the butler, looked troubled. “Someone is coming during the night, sahib?”

“I hope not. Karim, make sure that the Ranee’s and Prince Mahendra’s escorts sort it out amongst themselves—No, I’d better do it.”

He knew Karim was no diplomat and would take it for granted that his place in the Indian Army, a member of Farnol’s Horse, one of the elite regiments, gave him rank over any buggers in some ranee’s or
prince’
s small force. Farnol went out to where the
mahouts
were feeding and watering the elephants and the
syces
were unsaddling and watering the horses. He found the Ranee’s corporal and also the Prince’s, found also that each resented the other.

“All right, you take one side of the compound,
Naik
Mahbub Ali. You,
Naik
Chota Lai, take the other side with your men.” One was a Muslim and the other a Hindu, but he knew that with this particular pair religion had nothing to do with their animosity towards each other; they were only reflecting what the mistress and the master felt for each other. Christ, he thought, why don’t I just jump on a horse and ride pell-mell for Kalka and the train to Delhi? But then, of course, he would arrive in Delhi with nothing but his suspicions. He might still arrive there with nothing more, but at least he would have tried. And been tried, as he was by these two uncooperative
naiks
. “I want a double picquet on both sides of the compound and keep an eye on the rear.”

“Are these the Ranee’s orders, sahib?” said Mahbub Ali.

“Yes. And His Highness’, too,” he told Chota Lai. He knew they knew he was lying, but so long as he gave them both the same lie they were prepared to accept it. It was a way of saving face in front of the other.

Tents were being put up for the Nawab’s wives within the compound. The Nawab had not stopped to see to their comfort; there were enough servants to look after them; wives should be supported but not coddled. One of the wives, perhaps the youngest, though it was difficult to tell because of the veil, had paused and was looking in Farnol’s direction. Several times during the day when he had ridden up and down the procession, he had noticed her staring at him. Moderately vain, like most men, he had taken it for granted that she had been attracted to him because he was a contrast to her husband; he had ridden taller in the saddle and given her his best profile. But there was no coquetry in the dark eyes showing above the veil and he wondered now what was her interest in him. She saw him looking at her and she abruptly turned and lost herself behind the other wives who, with no husband at hand to berate, were taking it out on the servants, whose only sin was that they were male.

Farnol went back into the house to his shared room. The Baron was already soaking in the big copper tub in the small bathroom that opened off the bedroom. It was a primitive bathroom: a stone floor, mud walls and a ceiling of drooping hessian that, more likely than not, held a snake or two. There was a
wooden
lavatory box over a hole in the floor, the copper tub and water that was only running when bearers came scuttling in with buckets of it. The bedroom seemed to be full of bearers coming and going.

“Such a multiplicity of servants,” said the Baron, lifting a big sponge above his head and squeezing water over himself. “I shall miss all this when I go home next year. I think we Germans made a mistake establishing our colonies where we did. Tanganyika, South-West Africa, New Guinea—blacks never make good servants, not like these fellows.” He waved a soapy hand at the two bearers pouring more hot water into his tub and they smiled and nodded their heads in acknowledgement of what they took to be praise. “I envy you, Major. Having India, I mean.”

“What about Berlin? Does it envy us, too?”

“Probably,” said the Baron, but said no more, concentrating on washing the useless stump of his arm.

Everyone dressed for dinner again. Though Farnol was a rebel against some social customs, it did not occur to him to flout this particular custom, particularly when ladies were at table. His clothes were laid out on the bed, his dress shoes shone like black ice; he never had to worry about how or when his laundry was done, so that there was always a clean dress-shirt waiting for him. He and the Baron went down the short hallway together, shirt-fronts white and full as sails on a galleon.

The meal would have been better served to diners in sackcloth, someone doing penance. Mulligatawny soup, curried chicken (or, as Bridie wrote later in her notes, curried bones), blancmange for dessert: but everyone was hungry. The empty plates left the cook with the impression that he was, as he had always thought, indeed a great chef, a word he had once heard a visiting French consul use. Conversation was desultory, mainly because of the mood of the Ranee and her brother, who appeared not to be speaking to each other.

But Bridie managed to engage Mahendra’s attention. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to having a good-looking woman seated on his right; or perhaps it was that he knew little or nothing about Americans. His sullen mood warmed under her approach and Farnol, seated on the opposite side of the table, on Mahendra’s left, had to admire the way she handled him. Neither the Indian nor the Englishman was to know that she had honed her approach in interviews with City Hall politicians, whose variety of moods could be as mercurial as those of any unbalanced prince. Indeed, there were one or two who thought of
themselves
as princes, which was a measure of how unbalanced they were.

“Americans want to know about Indian princes,” she told Mahendra. “They wouldn’t want to live anywhere else but in our republic, but they secretly admire kings and princes, especially exotic ones.”

“Are we exotic?” Mahendra didn’t seem to think that amusing.

“I don’t know any of our politicians who dress quite as beautifully as you do.” She laughed to herself, then explained: “I was thinking of President Taft in blue silk and pink turban. He was something like sixty inches round his waist. But your slimness suits it.”

Mahendra was unused to flattery; he preened himself under the obvious compliment. “One has to keep up appearances. Our people expect it.”

“I’m sure they do,” said Bridie, and Farnol, watching her closely, saw the republican cynicism in her eye. “I’d like to do a story on the way you live, Your Highness.”

“I live very simply,” he said, unconscious of the treasure in pearls which hung round his neck. He had, indeed, dressed very simply this evening; he had put on the pearls only because his valet had already got them out of their box. He lived an ascetic life by his own standards. “It is true I am surrounded by servants, but for whom else would they work if not for me? I only employ them to keep them from starving.”

He really believes it, thought Farnol; and saw how Bridie allowed him to believe it: “It is just like life in America, Your Highness. We employ so many bureaucrats only to keep them from starving.”

“We have much in common then,” said the Prince, silkenly smug in his concern for the starving masses of the world.

When the meal was finished everyone repaired to the front verandah, since there was no drawing-room in the bungalow. Mahendra did not sit with the others but went down the steps and strolled up and down the driveway, head bent and hands clasped behind his back. Farnol, declining coffee, went down to join the young prince.

“Your Highness, you haven’t told me why Major Savanna was at the palace.”

Mahendra did not stop walking, just turned his head as Farnol fell into step beside him. “Should I, Major? Am I responsible for the comings and goings of English officers?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“The Bishop Cotton School in Simla.”

“
No more than that?”

“I was going to go to Oxford, but I decided it would not suit my temperament.” Did that mean he knew he was mentally unstable? Farnol remembered a line from a favourite poet, Dryden:
There’s a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know
. But Mahendra did not look as if he knew any pleasure at all.

“Didn’t they teach you at Bishop Cotton that we, the English and the Indians, must respect each other?”

“It always seemed to me that we were taught to respect the English. I can’t remember anything being said about the reverse. They may have implied it, but I fear I must have been a little dense. I’m still accused of that by my sister.” His smile did nothing to warm the chill night air.

Somewhere on the hill behind the bungalow a leopard coughed and outside the compound the elephants and horses stirred restlessly. The Ranee and the others on the verandah called out goodnight and went into the house. Mahendra turned to follow them, but Farnol put a hand on his arm. The prince stiffened, looked down at Farnol’s hand. He was of a rank that should not be touched by people of inferior rank and he considered an English officer an inferior.

Farnol knew what he had done, but he was not going to apologize. “Your Highness, I think we’d better talk. Major Savanna died in your palace from an overdose of drugs or some poison. Now if I don’t get the story of why he died and what he was doing there, you could receive a visit from someone with much more authority than I. He might come with troops, more than your little army could handle.”

“Take your hand away, Major.” Farnol did so. “Don’t ever put a finger on me again.”

“If you respect me, as I’m trying to respect you, there won’t be any need for me to lay a hand on you.” Farnol wondered if he should have begun this interrogation. He was tired and he would need all his wits about him to keep Mahendra calm and sane. He could not tell the prince what the Ranee had told him, that she was certain her brother intended to kill her. But he had to take risks: “Major Savanna came to see you, Your Highness. I know that much for a fact.”

“Who told you that? Mala? You were one of her lovers, weren’t you? I suppose she tells lots of fancy stories in bed. Bedtime stories.” He smiled again, looking pleased this time, as if he was not accustomed to any humour from himself.