The Far Pavilions (90 page)

‘Couldn't, son. I gotter get back to the old
Morala
. We're shippin' a cargo o' cotton over to Kutch termorrer. But I was right sorry to 'ear that you were orf up ter the Frontier and that I'd missed seein' you ter say good-bye and good luck.’

‘Come on back with me, Red,’ urged Ash. ‘Surely the cotton can wait? After all, if there was gale or a fog or something like that it would have to, wouldn't it? Dammit, this may be the last time I'll see you!’

‘Wouldn't be serprised,’ nodded the Captain. ‘But that's life, that is. ‘Ere today and gorn tomorrer; “Man fleeth as a shadder an' never continu-eth in one stay”. No son; carn't be done, not no 'ow. But I gotter better idea. Seein' as you're on leaf, why don't yer come along o' me for the trip? Land yer back nex' Toosday, cross me 'eart.’

Ash had accepted with alacrity and spent the next few days on board the
Morala
as the guest of the owner, lazing on deck in the shadow of the sails, fishing over the side for shark and barracuda, or listening to tales of the old East India Squadron in the days of John Company's greatness.

It was a peaceful and relaxing interlude, and when the Captain disclosed that the
Morala
would be sailing in a few weeks for the coast of Baluchistan, and suggested that Ash and Gul Baz should come half-way and be put off at Kati on the Indus, from where they could go by river boat up to Attock, he was tempted to agree. But there was Wally to be thought of – and Dagobaz too. The
Morala
had no proper accommodation for a horse, and on the open deck Dagobaz would have had a bad time of it in anything more than a gentle swell. He was obliged to refuse the offer, though he did so with regret, the more so because he realized that he was unlikely to meet Red Stiggins again, and he had enjoyed knowing him.

That was the worst of making friends like Red and Sarji: people who were not ‘members of the Club' – that closed society of Anglo-Indians who were moved across the vast map of India from this station to that and back again, on order from Simla or Calcutta or some other Seat of the Mighty, so that in time most of them came to know each other by repute even if they never actually met.

There was always a chance that in the course of his military career he would meet Mrs Viccary or one or other of the officers of Roper's Horse once more. But the odds were against his ever seeing either Sarji or Red again, and the thought depressed him, for in their different ways both had helped to make his stay in Gujerat far more enjoyable than it might otherwise have been: Sarji more than Red, for while Captain Stiggins had been something of a shooting star, flashing briefly into view and disappearing again with equal abruptness, Sarji had been a frequent and valued companion. Gay and talkative or restfully silent to suit the ocasion, seldom if ever out of temper, he had been an invaluable ally in times of restlessness and despair, and had provided a means of escape from the restricted life of the cantonment.

‘I shall miss Sarji,’ thought Ash. ‘And Red too.’ But there would be Wally waiting for him at Lahore and Zarin in Mardan, with Koda Dad a mere afternoon's ride away across the plain. And old Mahdoo would be in his quarters at Mardan ahead of him, pleased to be on familiar territory once more and waiting to welcome him back. It was a pleasant prospect, and suddenly he could not wait to leave.

But he was never to see Mahdoo again. The letter that he had written telling the old man of his recall to Mardan had arrived too late, for Mahdoo had died in his sleep less than twenty-four hours before it should have reached him, and by the time it was delivered he was already in his grave. His relations, who did not understand the workings of the telegraph, sent the news by dâk to young Kadera, his assistant, and Gul Baz was waiting with it when Ash returned to Ahmadabad.

‘It is a great loss to us all,’ said Gul Baz. ‘He was a good man. But he has fulfilled his years and his reward is sure, since it is written in the Sura of the Merciful “shall the reward of goodness be anything but good?” Therefore do not grieve for him, Sahib.’

But Ash had grieved deeply for Mahdoo, mourning the loss of someone who had been part of his life ever since that far-off day when he had been handed over to the care of Colonel Anderson and sent off on the first stage of the long journey to Bombay and England, a journey that would have been a nightmare had it not been for the presence of Mahdoo and Ala Yar, who had talked to him in his own tongue; and on many occasions during the years that followed given him advice and comfort and support. When he returned to India they had come with him, and when Ala Yar died, Mahdoo had remained at his post. Now he too had gone, and Ash could not bear to think that he would never see that kindly wrinkled face again, or hear the bubble of his hookah in the twilight.

The blow had been all the worse for coming at a time when the future had taken a rosier hue, and on the heels of those exhilarating days in the Gir Forest and that peaceful voyage on the
Morala
. Ash took it hard, and attempted to work off his grief by going for long, solitary rides across country, giving Dagobaz his head and taking banks, irrigation ditches, thorn hedges and sunken roads as they came, and at a reckless speed as though he were striving to out-distance his thoughts and memories. But both kept pace with him, and the restlessness and disquiet that had temporarily left him was back once more.

However fast and far he rode, and however tired he was on his return, he could not sleep; and Gul Baz, coming to wake him with the morning mug of tea, would find him standing on the verandah, staring out across the acre of trees and dusty grass that passed for a garden. And would know from his haggard face and the lines about his eyes that the night had again been a white one.

‘It is not right that you should grieve in this manner,’ chided Gul Baz disapprovingly, ‘for it is written in the Book that “all who live on earth are doomed to die”. Therefore to mourn thus is to question the wisdom of God, who of His goodness permitted Mahdoo-ji to live to a peaceful and honourable old age, and decreed both the hour and the manner of his death. Put aside your sorrow and be thankful that so many good years upon this earth were granted to one who is now in Paradise. Moreover, very soon now you will be back in Mardan and among friends again, and all this will be behind you. I will go again to the railway station and inquire if the carriages have been arranged for yet. All is packed and ready here, and we can leave within a day.’

‘I'll go myself,’ said Ash. And he had ridden down to the station and received the welcome news that the reservations he had asked for had been made at last – but for the following Thursday, which meant that he would have to spend the best part of another week in Ahmadabad.

The thought of sitting around among the packed and corded luggage that stood ready in the bungalow was dispiriting, and he decided that he would ride over to Sarji's house and ask if he could stay there for part of the time. But he was saved the trouble, for on returning to his bungalow he found Sarji himself waiting for him on the verandah, comfortably ensconced in one of the long wicker chairs.

‘I have something for you,’ said Sarji, lifting a languid hand. ‘The second pigeon came back this morning, and as I had business in the city I thought I would play
chupprassi
(peon) and bring you the message myself.’

Ash snatched the small scrap of paper from him, and unrolling it, read the first lines with a sudden lift of the heart.
‘The Rana is ill of a fatal sickness and will not live for more than a handful of days’
, wrote Gobind.
‘This has become clear to all…’

‘Dying!’ thought Ash, and smiled without knowing it a wide, grim, glittering smile that showed his clenched teeth – ‘he may be dead already. She will be a widow – she'll be free.’ He felt no sympathy for the Rana. Or for Shu-shu, who if gossip could be believed had fallen in love with the man, because he could only think of what this would mean for Juli and himself: Juli widowed, and free…

He steadied himself and read on; and all at once the day was no longer hot or the sunlight bright, and there was a constriction about his heart.

‘… and I have now learned that when he dies his wives will become suttee, being burned with him according to the custom. This is already spoken of, for his people follow the old laws and pay no heed to those of the Raj, and unless you can prevent it, it will surely be done. I will strive to keep him alive for as long as possible. But it will not be long. Therefore warn those in authority that they must act swiftly. Manilal will leave for Ahmadabad within the hour. Send more pigeons and…’

The lines of minute writing blurred and wavered before Ash's eyes and he could no longer focus them. He turned blindly away and groping for the back of the nearest chair, gripped it as though to steady himself and spoke in a breathless whisper: ‘No – it's not possible! They couldn't do it!’

The words were barely audible, but the horror in them was unmistakable and it shocked Sarji out of his lounging attitude. He said sharply: ‘It is bad news, then? What is it? What is not possible?’

‘
Saha-gamana,
’ whispered Ash without turning. ‘Suttee… The Rana is dying, and when he dies they mean to see that his wives are burnt with him. I must see the Commissioner – the Colonel – I must…’

‘Ah,
chut
!’ said Sarji impatiently. ‘Do not distress yourself, my friend. They will not do it. It is against the law.’

Ash jerked round to glare at him. ‘You do not know Bhithor!’ – his voice had shot up, and Gul Baz, appearing in a doorway with a tray of refreshments, froze at the sound of that hated word – ‘or the Rana. Or –’ He broke off and, turning, leapt down the verandah steps shouting for Kulu Ram to bring Dagobaz back.

A moment later he was again in the saddle and galloping down the drive like a maniac, raising a cloud of dust and grit and leaving Sarji, Gul Baz and Kulu Ram to stare after him in open-mouthed dismay.

38

‘I can only suppose that you have taken leave of your senses,’ said Colonel Pomfret austerely. ‘No, of course I cannot send any of my men into Bhithor. Such an action would be quite out of order; nor, I may say, would I do so if it were not. Matters of this nature are best left to the civil authorities or the police, and not to the army; though I would advise you against bursting in on anyone else in this unceremonious manner with some wild rumour that no one in their right minds would take seriously. I cannot understand what you are doing here, anyway. I thought you were on leave and off shooting somewhere.’

Two white patches showed on Ash's lean cheeks, but he managed to keep his voice under control and said briefly: ‘I was, sir.’

‘Then you had better go back there. No point in hanging about cantonments doing nothing. Haven't they been able to arrange your reservations on the trains yet?’

‘Yes, sir. They're for next Thursday. But –’

‘
Hmm.
Wouldn't have given you leave if I'd known that you'd be staying here at a loose end for all this time. Well, if you've said all you want to say, you will oblige me by leaving. I have work to do. Good-day.’

Ash withdrew, and disregarding the Colonel's advice, called on the Commissioner; only to find that the Commissioner shared Colonel Pomfret's views – particularly on the subject of junior officers who demanded to see him towards mid-day and on being told that the hour was inconvenient, and they should either come later in the day or earlier on the following one, burst into his presence with some cock-and-bull story and a demand that he, the Commissioner, should take immediate action on it.

‘Poppycock!’ snorted the Commissioner. ‘I don't believe a word of it: and if you knew these people as well as I do, you wouldn't either. It don't do to believe more than a fraction of what they tell you, as most of ‘em will always tell a lie rather than speak the truth, and trying to find out what really happened is like drawing eye-teeth or hunting for that proverbial needle in a haystack. This friend of yours – Guptar or Gobind or whatever his name is – is either pulling your leg or else he's too gullible by half. I can assure you that no one nowadays would dare to be party to such a thing as you suggest, and it's easy to see that your credulous friend has been the victim of a hoax. And you too, I fancy! Well, let me remind you that this is 1878 and that the law against suttee has been in force for over forty years. It is not likely to be flouted now.’

‘But you don't know Bhithor!’ cried Ash, as he had to both Sarji and Colonel Pomfret. ‘Bhithor doesn't belong to this century, let alone this half of it. I don't believe they have taken in that there is such a thing as the British Raj, or if they have, that it has anything whatever to do with them.’

‘Gammon,’ snapped the Commissioner, annoyed (he lunched at noon and it was already past that), ‘you exaggerate. It is obvious that –’

‘But you haven't
been
there,’ interrupted Ash.

‘What has that to say to anything? Bhithor is neither in my Province nor under my jurisdiction, so even were I inclined to place any credence in this ridiculous tale, which I fear I am not, I could still do nothing to help you. Your informant would have been better advised to approach the Political Officer responsible for that section of Rajputana – that is, if he really believes his own story, which I doubt.’

‘But sir, I have told you that he cannot get any message out of Bhithor,’ persisted Ash desperately. ‘There is no telegraph or post office, and though they may allow his servant to come here to buy medicines and drugs, they would never permit him to go anywhere else. If you would only send a telegram to the Political Agent –’

‘I shall do no such thing,’ said the Commissioner testily, and rose to his feet to show that the interview was at an end. ‘It has never been the policy of my Department to interfere with the administration of other provinces or to instruct those in charge of them, who are, believe me, more than able to deal competently with their own affairs.’

Ash said slowly: ‘Then… you will not do anything?’

‘It is not a question of “will not”, but “cannot”. And now, if you will excuse me –’

Ash ignored the request and stayed where he was, arguing, pleading and explaining for a further five minutes. But to no avail, for the Commissioner had merely lost his temper, and having informed him tersely that he was meddling in matters that he did not understand (and that were, in any case, no concern of his) had ended by ordering him to leave immediately or be forcibly removed by the guard.

Ash left, realizing that he had wasted the best part of two hours and that if he had had his wits about him he would have sent off a telegram before attempting to talk to anyone.

The Telegraph Office was closed to the public during the time of the mid-day meal and afternoon siesta, but he routed out an indignant clerk and induced him to send off four urgent telegrams: one to Kaka-ji, another to Jhoti, the third to that same Political Officer who had been so unhelpful in the matter of the Rana's chicanery over the marriage contracts, and finally (in case that obstinate official proved to be as useless now as he had been on that occasion) a fourth to the Honourable the Agent to the Governor-General, Rajputana – familiarly known as the A.G.G. – in Ajmer: an afterthought that was to prove disastrous, though it had seemed an excellent idea at the time. But then Ash had no idea who the present incumbent was, and had not taken the trouble to find out.

It had not been at all easy to cajole the Eurasian telegraph clerk into transmitting these telegrams. The contents of all four had alarmed him, and he had protested strongly against ‘such high matters' being sent in clear. Messages of this kind ought, in his opinion, to be sent in code or not at all. ‘I am telling you, sir, that telegrams, they are not secret things. By no means. They are getting sent on from one
tar-khana
to another, and veree many cheeky fellows are seeing them by the way – peons and such-like too – and they will be chitter-chattering about them to one and all.’

‘Good,’ said Ash shortly, ‘I'm delighted to hear it. The more talk the better.’

‘But sir -!’ wailed the clerk, ‘there will be much unfortunate gossip and scandal. And what if this Rana-Sahib should not after all die, and you are finding yourself in loads of trouble for misrepresentation and libels and such things? And me too, because I am sending out these accusations? I may be blamed for this and get into hot waters, and if I am losing my job -’

It had taken fifteen minutes and fifty rupees to overcome the clerk's scruples, and the telegrams had been sent. After which Ash had gone to the bungalow of Mr Pettigrew, District Superintendent of Police, in the hope (a faint one by now) that the police might prove more helpful than the military or the civil arm.

Mr Pettigrew had certainly been less sceptical than either Colonel Pomfret or the Commissioner, but he too had pointed out that this was a matter for the authorities in Rajputana, adding that they probably knew a good deal more about what went on there than Lieutenant Pelham-Martyn would seem to think. However he had at least promised to send a personal telegram to a colleague in Ajmer – one Carnaby, who was a personal friend of his.

‘Nothing official, you understand,’ said Pettigrew. ‘One doesn't want to stick one's neck out and sound like a meddling nosey-parker. And to be honest, I can't say that I take this pigeon-post message of yours all that seriously. You'll probably find it's all a hum. On the other hand, it's just possible that there might be something in it, so there's no harm in dropping a hint to Tim Carnaby – just to be on the safe side. He's not the type of fellow who prefers to let sleeping dogs lie, and he'll certainly see that it's looked into. I'll get a wire sent off to him at once, and you can be sure that if anything needs to be done he'll do it.’

Ash thanked him with a good deal of fervour and rode away feeling much easier in his mind. After the agonizing frustration of the morning, it was reassuring to find someone who did not dismiss Gobind's warning as pure nonsense, and was actually prepared to do something about it – even though that something was no more than an unofficial hint to a personal friend.

But as matters turned out he might have saved himself the visit, for the D.S.P's efforts on his behalf came to nothing. The friend had gone on leave three days before the telegram was dispatched, and owing to Pettigrew's anxiety to avoid any suggestion of interfering with another man's work, the information it contained had been presented in such casual and chatty terms that it. failed to convey any suggestion of urgency. The officer deputizing for the absent Tim Carnaby had, in consequence, not thought it worthwhile to send it on and had thrust it into a drawer with other letters that he could read on his return.

The effects of Ash's own telegrams had been equally abortive. Jhoti, with Kaka-ji's approval, had sent one of his own to the A.G.G. Rajputana, on receipt of which the A.G.G. had in turn wired the British Resident in Karidkote, whose reply had been non-committal. It was, he said, well known that the Rana's health was not of the best, but this was the first anyone in Karidkote had heard that he might be dying, and he had reason to believe that the source of this information was not entirely trustworthy. Anything emanating from that particular quarter should be treated with reserve, as the officer in question not only appeared to have too much influence over the young Maharajah, but was by reputation both eccentric and undisciplined.

Unfortunately, these observations had arrived in Ajmer only hours before a letter from the Political Officer; and taken together the two communications had effectively destroyed Ash's credibility – and with it any chance that his warnings would be taken seriously. For by an unkind quirk of fate the newly appointed Agent to the Governor-General, who had taken office only a few weeks previously, happened to be that same Ambrose Podmore-Smyth – now Sir Ambrose – who six years earlier had married Belinda Harlowe. And what with Belinda and her father and the gossips of the Peshawar Club, everything he had heard of young Pelham-Martyn had inspired him with a dislike for his wife's former suitor that time had done nothing to eradicate.

Sir Ambrose strongly disapproved of Englishmen who ‘went native’, and his wife's garbled account of her ex-admirer's early history (it was perhaps fortunate that Belinda could not recall the name of the state in which Ash had lived – and very little else either) had scandalized her husband. No wonder the fellow lacked steadiness and a proper sense of moral values, and had brought disgrace upon his race and his regiment by absconding into tribal territory with a handful of dismissed sepoys. One could only hope that he would meet a speedy and merciful death there and no more would be heard of him.

Sir Ambrose had been unpleasantly surprised to find that a telegram from Ahmadabad, sent in clear and containing startling allegations, was from someone signing himself Pelham-Martyn. He could not believe it was the same Pelham-Martyn, but as the name was an uncommon one it might be worthwhile to check, and he had directed his Personal Assistant to do so immediately; and also to see that a copy of the telegram was sent to the Political Officer whose area included Bhithor, inviting his comments. After which, conscious of having done all that could be expected of him, he had retired to his wife's drawing-room for a pre-tiffin drink, where he happened to mention the odd coincidence of that name from the past.

‘You mean
Ashton
?’ cried Belinda (a Belinda, alas, whom Ash would barely have recognized). ‘Then he did get back safely after all! Well I must say, I never thought he would. Nor did anyone else. Papa said it was good riddance of bad rubbish. But I don't think Ashton was bad, only rather wild. Just fancy his turning up again.’

‘He has not “turned up”,’ said Sir Ambrose tartly. ‘There is no reason to believe it's the same fellow. Might be a relative: though I doubt it. Probably no connection at all, and we shall find –’

‘Oh fiddlesticks!’ interrupted his wife. ‘Of course it's Ashton – it's so like him. He was always getting mixed up with things that were none of his business; and with natives, too. Now here he is doing it again. It must be him. It couldn't be anyone else. I wonder what on earth he's doing in this part of the world? Do you suppose he's still…’ She broke off, and leaning back in her chair, surveyed her lord and master with a dissatisfied eye.

Time and the climate of India had not been kind to Sir Ambrose. They had changed him from a portly, self-satisfied man into an obese, bald and insufferably pompous one, and Belinda, studying that purple countenance with its fringe of grey whiskers and plethora of chins, caught herself wondering if it had been worth it. She was Lady Podmore-Smyth, the wife of a tolerably rich and important man, and mother of two healthy children (both girls, which was not her fault though Ambrose seemed to think otherwise) and yet she was not happy.

Life as a Resident's lady had not been nearly as amusing as she had imagined: she missed the gaiety of a military station in British India, disliked the whole tedious and painful business of child-bearing, found her husband dull and existence in a native state boring beyond words. ‘I wonder,’ mused Belinda aloud, ‘what he looks like now? He used to be very handsome… and so madly in love with me.’