The Faraway Drums (38 page)

“Clive, you’re naïve about money and its need by some people. History is full of buggers who needed money more than they did their friends.”

“So what do we do? Concentrate on Sankar?”

“There’s no alternative. He’s the ring-leader—or if he isn’t, then we haven’t spotted anyone else. Har Dayal, Madame Cama and the others we know about are all still out of the country. No, it’s Sankar, I’m afraid.”

“Mahendra?”

“He worries me, but not that much. I was talking to Mala last night about him—” He let his monocle drop. “Don’t jump to conclusions. It was at Jodhpur’s reception—the good wife was there keeping an eye on me. Mahendra was there with Mala and she told me he was on his very best behaviour. The boy’s insane, I’m sure, but perhaps he’s getting over it. Maybe insanity is like epilepsy, one can grow out of it. Afraid I don’t know enough about that sort of thing. Tried to read some books on the subject, but I gave up. Chaps were using terms that made
me
mad. Suppose I’m old-fashioned, but we all have a fault or two.” He put his monocle back in, smiled. “You and I have less than most.”

Farnol smiled in agreement, left and went to take Bridie on a picnic out along the Jumna River. He had borrowed a small victoria from his father and they drove out through the hot golden morning, turned on to a side road and found themselves beside the ruins of a small temple. Behind them a market garden stretched back to the main road; across the olive-brown river a village was piled like a heap of white blocks, a decoration of flood markings showing on the walls. A caravan of camels moved in their slow-motion walk along the opposite bank, all their riders seemingly slumped in sleep. The river ran sluggishly and above it the hawks planed in lazy circles as if too enervated to look for a direction. A lone, sparsely-
leafed
tree stood beside the temple ruins and Farnol despatched some crows from it with a shout and spread out a rug in its thin shade.

It was not the most romantic spot: the smell from the river was stronger than Bridie’s perfume. She had sprinkled it on a little more liberally than usual: she was being irresistible. The spot, as Farnol said, was not the best, but it did give them room to get closer to each other. It had been very difficult to get close to each other in the crowded reception tents where they had so far spent all their time together.

“When are you leaving Bombay?”

“The ship leaves a week from today.”

He already knew the sailing date, but lovers like a little torture. “I think we should leave for Bombay tonight.”

She lay down on the blanket, put her head in his lap and looked up at him. “Having a few extra days together isn’t going to solve anything. I’d just feel you were spending more time with me so that you had to spend less time on your problem here. Anyway, I can’t leave Delhi till the King is safely through the Durbar.”

“You think more of your editor than you do of me.”

“Darling.” She sat up, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him savagely. A Most Improper Bostonian, she wanted to tear his clothes from him, to be made love to on the banks of the Jumna.

He wanted to tear the clothes from her, make love to her; but not on the banks of the Jumna. Looking through her hair he saw the market gardener, two women and four children leaning on their hoes watching how the idle Europeans filled in their mornings. “We have an audience, my love.”

“Damn!” She sat back, looked at the spectators, then waved to them. They shyly waved back, but didn’t move away; this was better than digging up greens. Bridie straightened her hair, then burst out laughing. “I must tell Toodles Ryan about this.”

“I want to marry you,” he said seriously.

“I want to marry you, too.” She stopped laughing, took his hand, turned her back on the market gardener and his family. “But I could never become an army wife, darling. I’ve enjoyed India—well, not enjoyed it. I’ve found it fascinating. But I could never live here.”

“I know nothing else. Oh, a little of England, but not enough. I’d be completely at sea in
America.
What would I
do
? I’m a soldier. The U.S. cavalry wouldn’t want me telling them how to fight the Indians.”

“Maybe you could work for my father as a trainee ward boss.”

He smiled. “I think I’ve had enough of politics.”

“Do you have any money?” Her mother had taught her to be practical about certain matters.

“I suppose so.” He’d always had more than enough to pay his mess bills, buy his uniforms, run some polo ponies. He supposed a wife would cost a good deal more. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

The market garden family had been joined by relatives and friends: a small crowd was gathering amongst the greens. A boat came across the river and two men and four women got out and stood on the bank looking up at the Europeans. Some crows came back and sat on the walls of the ruined temple. Farnol looked at the brown crumbling stone of the temple, saw the faint outline of a frieze of figures, all the heads turned towards him and Bridie. Even the gods were spectators.

“Let’s go back.” He almost roughly jerked her to her feet, angry at the onlookers and the choice that lay before him. Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with some colonel’s daughter? But he had tried to; and with half a dozen princes’ daughters. He had done his best to marry India, but always in the end he had held back. He did not want to hold back with Bridie, but was not sure he could marry America.

They rode back to New Delhi, though it was not yet called that and neither of them knew that it would be. They were quiet and unhappy, but not with each other, just with their circumstances.

II

The Baron took the glass of Krug ‘04 that Magda handed him. He had sent for the Mondays, ostensibly to have a drink with him, and as soon as they had arrived he had dismissed the bearer and asked Magda would she play hostess. She had been delighted, sure that all was forgiven and that Zoltan and Heir Baron were from now on to be the best of friends.

“This is marvellous champagne, Herr Baron.” She smiled and raised her glass to him.

“It is the last of a case that Baron von Wangenheim sent me from Constantinople.” He knew they knew the German ambassador to Turkey; they had probably drunk the same champagne at Wangenheim’s table. “I forget what the occasion was.”

“
Champagne shouldn’t be kept just for occasions,” said Magda.

“My wife would bathe in it if one could get it out of a tap.” Zoltan Monday sat back, relaxed and happy. A half-million-pound order already on the cable wire to Essen and more to come; he could see himself being moved to the very top of the line of Krupps agents, being invited to Germany to dine with the Krupp family at the Villa Hügel. But first he would take Magda south to Ootacamund for a couple of weeks and there in the tropical hills they would laze and make love. But always with an eye on the open door, to get out of the country before the bloodbath began. He had a cardinal rule: an arms salesman should never allow himself to be caught up in a war. “I try to tell Magda that such a beautiful drink should not be wasted like that.”

The Baron looked at Magda, imagining her naked in a bath of Krug ‘04. It would not be such a waste. Or perhaps it would be, for he would not be able to do anything but sit and admire and regret. He put down his glass.

“Herr Monday, I am told you have sent a big order to Krupps and DWM for field guns, rifles and machine-guns.”

The champagne abruptly turned sour in Monday’s mouth. “Who told you that, Herr Baron?”

“It is of no matter. The English know all about it. I am giving you an order of my own now. You are to send a cable to Krupps and DWM that the consignment is not to be sent, that the English know of it and plan to confiscate it.”

“With all respect, Herr Baron, the English knowing about the consignment won’t make any difference, at least not to Krupps and DWM. My clients are taking delivery of it outside the borders of India. What happens to it after that is no concern of ours.”

The Baron was prepared for that argument. He had sat all day counting the years past against the few still to come, weighing honour against ambition. He had none of the latter now and that made it easier for him.

“It is
my
concern, Herr Monday. The consignment must not be delivered at all, neither within the borders of India nor outside them. I do not think German firms should be party to revolution within a country with which we ourselves are not at war.”
Not yet
: but he managed not to say that.

Magda sat quietly, the champagne in her glass forgotten. She was completely amoral about
business.
Profit and commission were her only criteria. But she was not without compassion and she could see that the old man was as troubled as her husband.

“Herr Baron—” He looked at her suspiciously; but she knew there was only one business in which coquetry paid off. “Have you looked at the other side of this situation? Do you think it is our right to pass judgement on the Indians’ desire for freedom?”

He wanted to smile; but he had never insulted ladies. “Madame Monday, I can assure you that Berlin is even less interested in the Indians’ freedom than you or I are. I don’t think we have to trouble ourselves with that moral judgement.”

“Who said anything about Berlin?”

“Your husband did, several days ago.” He looked back at Monday. “I presume your employers will tell Berlin of your order?”

“Most certainly, Herr Baron.” Monday took another sip of champagne; it had regained its taste. “I’m afraid that will take care of your order to me.”

“Not quite, Herr Monday. If you do not cancel your order to Krupps and DWM, then I shall call in Miss O’Brady and give her the full story of what has gone on. She can fill it in with details of everything that has happened in the past week and I’m sure it will be what I understand American newspapers call a scoop. I should imagine that every newspaper in the world, with the exception of those in the Fatherland, will pick up the story and run it on their front pages. It will be the last thing the Kaiser will want just now, while his cousin King George is being crowned here in India.”

Monday put down his glass, said quietly, “It will be the end of your career, Herr Baron. I shall have to tell my employers why I am cancelling my orders.”

“That, Herr Monday, will be your privilege.” He picked up his glass, finished the champagne in it. “You see, I do believe in certain freedoms.”

Magda stood up, collected the glasses, put them on the silver tray on the table against the wall. She did it with the air of a house-keeper who knew the party was over; but not quite. She said, “Herr Baron, does this mean you won’t want us to sit with you tomorrow to see the Coronation?”

The Baron looked at her in surprise. But not Zoltan: he knew she always tried to salvage something from disaster. The Baron said, “The invitation still stands, Madame—”

“
Then we shall be there.” She drew on her gloves. “Come, sweetheart. We should just have time to get to the cable office before it closes.”

The Baron stood up. “You are a remarkable woman, Madame Magda, I hope your husband appreciates that.”

“I do,” said Monday.

“The world hasn’t come to an end, Herr Baron.” She gave him a sweet, friendly smile. She thought him old-fashioned and stupidly honourable, but she bore him no malice. “There will be other orders from other clients.”

Ah, but the world
is
coming to an end, thought the Baron. But just bowed as the arms salesman and his wife, order books at the ready, went out.

III

“Today’s the day,” said the Queen, only just awake and not yet queenly.

The King was already up, a stickler for punctuality. The Coronation was still five hours away, but he must be sure no one was late. He had already had all his equerries wakened and he hoped all his subjects, the millions of them, were up and about. Or at any rate the hundred thousand or so of them who would actually attend the Coronation.

God, being an Englishman and out of England, where even He found the weather trying, had arranged a beautiful day for the occasion. An equerry came in to tell the King so and remarked that it would please the Archbishop of Canterbury when he heard of it.

“Cousin Willy would give half of Prussia for all that’s about to happen today,” said the Queen. She was not malicious, only sensible about the Kaiser. “He loves pomp and ceremony.”

“I thought of inviting him. But in the circumstances, the way he’s acting lately, Asquith thought it wasn’t advisable.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. It would have been showing off and that’s not like you.”

But five hours later, when the King and Queen left their camp for the climax of the Durbar, any republican might have been forgiven for thinking that the Royal pair were indeed showing off. The King was wearing the special crown created by Garrards of London for his Indian Coronation; no one had
thought
of entrusting the task to the craftsmen of the Chandni Chowk. The cap was of purple velvet trimmed with ermine and surmounted with a band of diamonds, four large emeralds and four large sapphires; above that were four cross
pâtées
with ruby centres, alternated with four
fleurs-de-lys
with emerald centres. His Majesty wore the Imperial purple robes, a surcoat of purple, white satin breeches and stockings and the sash of the Order of the Garter. The Queen was almost as eye-catching, but modestly wore, instead of a crown, a diadem of diamonds and emeralds. The assembled princes, decked out like jewelled peacocks, felt suddenly quite drab when they saw them and one homosexual rajah swooned with envy and had to be revived with smelling salts.

The royal couple arrived at the Durbar site in their open carriage drawn by four horses; the King felt more comfortable and conspicuous than he had on his arrival in Delhi. A band struck up Schubert’s
Ave Maria
, which pleased and amused Queen Mary but made the King wonder if he now had to worry about feminist-minded bandmasters. The band, as if suddenly realizing the possibility of its banishment to the distant Falkland Islands, switched abruptly to
God Save The King
.