CHAPTER 1
As the steamship Astarte, one of the latest steel hulled vessels of the P & O Lines, completed her passage through the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb and turned her bows towards the port of Aden, it was already night. Electric lamps, encased in frosted glass spheres, glowed brightly in the smoking saloon where three men sat drinking around a table. These three men obviously formed a party; between them was fellowship of the sea. One of the three gentlemen who was the most voluble of the three-perhaps he had had a little more of the drink-was speaking in a hectoring tone to the others.
“It’s all wrong, I tell you. It won’t do. Just won’t do!”
“What won’t do?” asked one of the other men. He was the oldest of the three. With his tall, stout frame, iron grey hair, tortoiseshell spectacles and florid complexion, he looked like an easygoing up-country clergyman who is perhaps a little too fond of his drink-which in point of fact is what he was.
“Why, this whole attitude towards India. Treating the natives as though they were our equals and the blasted country as though she were a part of England. I call it the milk and water attitude. A bit of rum and toddy shall cure you of it Cartwright. And India herself will do the rest.”
The object of this reproof was a young man, with a fresh face crowned by a mop of sandy hair and a slim, athletic frame. His name, as already reported, was Cartwright and he was going to take up the post of Assistant Collector in the district of Hoshangabad in Central India, after completing his university education.
“I don’t’ know what you mean Mr. Rumblod. All that I have been saying is that our policy in India has to be tempered with a due regard for the sentiments of the Indians, particularly enlightened Indian opinion. Can’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“Poppycock! This enlightened Indian opinion as you call it, is nothing but the pipe-dream of a bunch of seditious Indian lawyers and babus. You’ll soon know better.” Rumbold was a tall man with a large, beaky nose and a toothbrush moustache, dressed with foppish care in a white twill suit with blue piping and gleaming brass buttons.
“What say you Mr Bainbridge?” the young Cartwright to the clergymen with the ardent hope of finding a supporter, but he was to be disappointed.
“You are being theoretical young man, that’s what I would say. When you come down to brass tacks, Indians need strong government. They need and appreciate strength and firmness, notwithstanding the noises made by the English education Congresswallahs, and we have given them the best government they had in a thousand years.”
The ship rolled and pitched in the heavy seas, unusual for the time of the year. The wind had freshened to a gale, but the sky was cloudless and they could see the ship’s bulwarks in the bright moonlight through the windows of the state room. Their apartments on the quarter deck were separated from the bulwarks by wide gangways which kept out the noise of the sea. Furnished in the style of a turn of the century officers’ club, the smoking room was panelled in teak, and a false ceiling of timber with mock joists had been provided to complete the impression. Several lithographs graced the walls, showing hunting or sporting scenes. The chairs and tables were solid specimens, carved and curlicued extravagantly in the fashion of the day. A hurricane lantern of the kind used in India, incongruous in the brightly Iit room, swung back and forth on a hook, keeping time with the pitching of the ship.
“Koi hai!” Rumbold shouted at the Goan steward, who hovered in the background.
“His name is Braganza, Rumbold,” observed the clergymen mildly.
“Yess sah!” The steward bowed deferentially.
“Get me another one of these damned cocktails. And make sure the drink is mixed properly this time.” Said Rumbold.
“My dear Rumbold, I can see nothing working with the drink. “ Said the clergyman in a tone of mild expostulation.
“Neither do I, but you never know with these natives. For all you know he might be doctoring your gin with some damned Goan Feni. Can’t trust the fellows.”
The steward reappeared with the drink. The ship continued to plough through the choppy seas. Rumbold again resumed his bantering with the young man. “See this lantern Cartwright, you are going to need this where you are going. Hoshangabad, did you say. A god-forsaken place, if there ever was one. It sits by a large river which often breaks its banks in the rains, flooding the town; if you can call it a town. What you do have there is –jungle. Miles and miles of it, and swarming with tigers and panthers and a whole lot of other game. Ever done any hunting cartwright?”
“Hunting, gosh no!” To Cartwright, who had never been out of England, hunting meant fox-hunting with the hounds, and in his liberal, middle-class household this upper-class fetish had always been anathema.
“There is all the difference in the world between hunting in India and hunting in England. One is a sport, the other is murder,” said the clergyman.
“There is no getting away from hunting in India Cartwright. Not if you are an officer of the crown. They won’t give you a district charge until you have shot your first tiger.”Said Rumbold.
“Quite right too,” said the clergyman.
“But you can’t support hunting sir! It is …, well, so unchristian.”
“No better way to test your nerve than tiger hunting on foot. My dear young man, India, as I have said before, is different.”
“But surely….. well, I suppose I might just be able to see things in a different light after a few years’ experience. But I can’t see myself putting a slug into a tiger.”
“Don’t’ count on it Cartwright,” said Rumbold. “I have seen boys form Quaker families end up keeping a harem of native women and temperance fanatics becoming dram-drinkers. India dose strange things to people, Wait till you get to your district. I may even look you up one of these days, if my work takes me there. I am not all that far away you know, I am at Ratangarh, right across the river. Only a few hours journey as the crow files.”
“Don’t’ let Rumbold frighten you young man. Hoshangabad isn’t half as bad as he makes out. There is a nice little church there where I have served in my younger days, and Bains, who I believe is going to be your Collector, is rather a hospitable sort of chap, though sometimes inclined to be a little theoretical like you. The saving grace in the district of Hoshangabad is the hill station of Pachmari, the only one we have in Central India. It’s a pleasant Little place with a nice vicarage. And if all goes well, I hope to spend the rest of my life there.
“You don’t mean to go back home then,” asked Cartwright.
“Go back, why no! This was my last visit to England for sure, the only connection I had with the old country was my mother, and I have buried her this last week, poor soul. Now it’s good bye to old England for ever. Good bye to the cold and the damp and the gas bills.”
“I would much rather freeze than fry, reverend” Said Rumbold.
“The hills of Pachmarhi are cool and green Rumbold, and the summers are summers are much kinder than in the plains. One day I hope to rest my old bones in the cemetery among the cypress trees there rather than in an English churchyard.”
“You are being morbid padre, you’ll probably outlive most of us. By the way, it’s an old saying Cartwright, that if you survive your first five years in India, you will probably live to a ripe old age.”
Just then their conversation was arrested by the entry of a party of Indians at whose head was a gentleman attired in a faultlessly tailored suit. A magnificent diamond brooch glittered on one of the lapels of his jacket. After the three newcomers had made themselves at home they looked around to take stock of their surroundings, and it was then that the bejewelled gentleman made eye contact with the three Englishmen. He raised his eyebrows quizzically. “Why it’s old Buffy. How are you Buffy old man”
Rumbold who had risen rather hurriedly to his feet on seeing this party, bowed very low. “Your Highness, allow me to introduce the Vicar of Pachmarhi, the right reverend Wilfred Bainbridge. And the other gentleman is Cartwright, the newly appointed Assistant Collector of Hoshangabad.”
“I know, I know. Buffy and I were together at college, and I am glad to meet you Mr. Cartwright. You can call me Preddy, gentlemen. I know the British find it hard to pronounce my name. Do sit down. Now what will you drink. Ah! I see that you are drinking gin and tonic. Well, personally I prefer scotch and soda, but if it’s gin and tonic you like, why then, gin and tonic it shall be. Sometimes I feel the British do not really appreciate the best things about their own country. They keep complaining about their weather, but to us there is nothing more delightful than rain and cloud-it is the rain that keeps the grass green and gives Englishwomen their rosy complexion. They keep running down their class system, but without it you couldn’t have had the British Public School-the finest institution for the training of young men anywhere in the world. And now scotch whiskey-I am told now only retired colonels in Cheltenham drink it-what a pity.”
The Prince waved a hand and a fresh round of drinks appeared. The two other members of his party chose to abstain from alcohol.
“How are things in your dominions, your …. ahem… your highness, no trouble from the Congress?” said Cartwright.
“Call me Preddy, vicar. As for trouble from the Congress, why no. They confine themselves to British India.”
“Why is that sir, I mean why should the Congress be active only in British India,” asked Cartwright.
“My dear Mr, Cartwright, what’s your first name by the way,… James! Good, well my dear James! It is because there are no English language schools in my state.”
“English schools, what’s that got to do with it.”
“Well, no English schools, no English educated lawyers, therefore, no Congress. In my state, cases are argued in Persian, or in the vernacular, and we can get by quite comfortably with a few old clerk and munshis, and those old codgers are not going to turn into political agitators.”
“Are you saying Preddy that English education is not such a good thing,” asked the clergyman.
“Oh, it’s an excellent thing, Buffy. And so in the British Raj. Small states like mine wouldn’t have survived but for the protection given us by the Paramount Power. And if we hadn’t had the Raj, we wouldn’t have had scotch whiskey, or Purdy shot guns, or flush latrines, thing what life would be without these things, especially flush latrines. Oh yes, English ideas of Liberty and freedom and it has made the congress party what it is.”
“But you can’t keep out English education for ever, or Progressive ideas for that matter,” said Cartwright.
“We in India prefer harmony to progress. But you are right of course, though only in the long run. And in the long run we are all dead anyway. So eat, drink, and be merry while you are alive, who knows what will happen tomorrow.
Gentlemen, may I propose a toast. To the King Emperor!”
“To the King Emperor!”
You say you have no trouble from the Congresswallahas, but what about Maan Singh?” Asked the clergyman.
The genial expression on the Prince’s face suddenly turned hard, but only for an instant. The smile was back quickly, “Ah! Maan Singh, now there you have me. The congress boys I can deal with it, but no this clever bandit who slips out of my clutches just when we seem to have him. But then I suspect, he wouldn’t be able to give us the slip so easily if my borders were not so damnably mixed up with British territory. At some spots you just can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Every time I put my men on him he slips into British India. And that man is a master of disguise.”
“Maan Singh, who might he be?” Asked Cartwright.
“Good God man! you don’t know Maan Singh, but youshall know him soon enough. In central India he is quite as famous as Gandhi. A Robin Hood figure, who is a bandit cum politician who has kept the police on the run for years. They say he is planning some big outrage as revenge for the firing in Amritsar.” Said Rumbold.
Just then a liveried messenger entered the smoking room and whispered something in the Prince’s ears. “You will forgive me gentlemen for deserting you in this abrupt manner, but I fear I must leave you for now.” The Prince shook hands again before leaving, his two companions bowed, and then they were gone.
The conversation continued. “What do you make of him?” asked Cartwright of Rumbold.
“Old Preddy is in cahoots with the bandit. But he is sly one, is the Prince. But then I Must not speak against my employer. I am his agent after all.” Rumbold sounded almost apologetic that he was in the service of a native state.
“But why should he shelter a notorious outlaw like this one. He has nothing to gain, and everything to lose by doing so why, if the Government of India can pin this on him, he will lose his kingdom, will he not.”
“They say he uses the bandit to keep the congress out of his state, and as long as he doesn’t do anything silly, the Paramount Power will go on turning a Nelson’s eye to his hobnobbing with the bandit. But after what happened in Amritsar, I am told this outlaw is planning something big against the government. He might even join the Congress. You never know with these Indians.”
“Do anything silly, what do you mean?”
“Why, shoot his polo ponies as the Alwar Rajah did the other day. Now that sort of thing is not going to be tolerated. In our scheme of things, cruelty to horses is much worse than cruelty to men” Said Rumbold.
“What sort of place is India, I wonder. Tigers, jungles, mad rajahs who shoot polo ponies, bandits who are also politicians. It is all so confusing. “ Cartwright was genuinely perplexed.
“Poor boy, but not to worry. Another these days and we shall be in India. Then you can find out.”
