The Ravi Lancers (2 page)

‘Sab thik hai, rissaldar sahib?’

‘
Sab thik hai,
sahib,’ the rissaldar responded from behind the squadron.

The bands were playing
Lutzow’s Wild March
at a hectic speed.

The green-clad mass of Gurkhas, who marched at that pace, was approaching the saluting base. Five minutes later the bands fell silent. Artillery and infantry lined the left side of the parade ground, a wall of blue and scarlet, Frontier-drab and Rifle green.

Colonel Woodward sang out the long-vowelled orders: ‘44th Bengal Lancers will gallop past! By the right, walk ... march! ‘

The band again struck up
Aida
. Ploughman’s powerful quarters tensed and he began to move as though he had understood the colonel’s distant order. The sun was a hot arm across Warren’s shoulders now, and dust blew away in dancing spirals down the length of the parade ground towards the city.

‘Trot!’

The squadrons jingled into a trot, and Warren thrust himself deeper into the saddle. The bands changed into the
Light Cavalry Overture
.

‘Canter! ‘

His legs squeezed Ploughman’s flanks and the huge horse bounded forward. Ahead the rigid lines of the squadrons bent, and at once straightened again, like bow strings. The dust towered higher than the horses’ heads, the thunder of hoofs blurred the blare of the bands. Quarter of a mile to go, his black-mustachioed Rajputs galloping shoulder to shoulder behind him, the bearded Sikhs ahead. Now he was racing past the stand, the frenzied trumpets of
Light Cavalry
loud in his ears. He felt a momentary exhilaration ... But this was all make-believe. Would he ever see enemy ahead, the lances lowering, his sabre slashing down?

The commands filtered down ...
Trot! ... Walk march!... Form troop column!
The review was over, the regiment riding back to its lines. The sun was high and he had a tolerable thirst on him.

An hour later he was sitting at the head of the dining-room table in his bungalow, dressed now in dark grey flannel trousers and a light-weight tweed jacket, with a white shirt and the tie of his old school, Marlborough. A copy of the day’s
Civil & Military Gazette
lay beside his plate and the
khitmatgar
was helping him to grilled kidneys, bacon, and fried eggs. His wife Joan sat on his right and his sister Diana on his left, both already eating. The children sat in high chairs at the foot of the table, with
ayah
standing between them, helping them to eat.

‘That was a wonderful thing to see, Warrie,’ his sister said. ‘The gallop past. But it was frightening, too.’

‘And probably quite useless,’ Joan said, lifting her tea cup. ‘The army always gets ready for the last war but one.’

Warren said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’ll still be cavalry charges.’

Joan said, ‘Tribesmen aren’t going to stay and be charged at, and any European army would have guns and machine guns. But let’s not talk about war. It’s such a bore, almost as bad as horses. What time are we going to Shalimar?’

Warren pulled out his watch, and said, ‘Noon? Is that all right?’

Joan nodded, her mouth full of bacon. The two women were as different as could be: Joan tall and long-nosed, willowy, dressed now--as on the parade ground--in a diaphanous white gown gathered high under her bosom, her hair down, loosely controlled by a broad scarlet ribbon. She looked like a Greek poetess or a prominent courtesan of the French Directory, anything but what she was, the wife of a captain of Indian cavalry. Diana, two years younger, was built more like himself, not short but giving an impression more of solidity than of height, her dark brown hair neat, her clothes inconspicuous in browns and dull greens, her rather large hands now resting on the table. She’d spent six months with them now, here in Lahore and in the hill station of Dalhousie, but no luck. Most of the eligible bachelors weren’t attracted, seeming to want something more flashy; and to the only one who showed any interest, Diana was polite but distant. ‘She doesn’t really want to get married,’ Joan had said to him one night, ‘not unless she can find another Warren.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ he’d replied; but perhaps there was a bit of truth in it. Diana had always worshipped him.

A small brown fox-terrier face, with a white eye patch, peered round the open door from the hall. Warren pointed his finger and said, ‘Out, Shikari! You know you’re not allowed in the dining-room.’

The face disappeared. Diana got up, ‘I’ll take him for a little walk ... and Louise and Rodney. Come on, children.’

The
khitmatgar
stood motionless against the wall behind Warren. Joan gestured for more hot water and he silently disappeared. Warren said, ‘We’d better start thinking about what you’re going to take home. There’ll only be a fortnight after I get back from camp ... You’re going to find Shrewford Pennel rather lonely, I’m afraid. No one to talk to. Not your sort of people, I mean.’

Joan said, ‘There’s Ralph. He was hardly more than a boy when I met him, but he seemed interesting ... unusual, anyway.’

‘He’s unusual, all right,’ Warren said.

He spread marmalade on his toast, while the
khitmatgar
put the fresh pot of hot water on the table. Ralph Harris was a queer one, sullen and boisterous by turns, sometimes rude, sometimes over-polite, often withdrawn into himself. One could hardly blame him. His situation wasn’t his fault. Still, it was a pity that Joan found Diana so dull. There was a lot they could have done together, even in the depths of Wiltshire, if they shared the same enthusiasms.

He got up, wiping his mouth, ‘I think I’ll take a look at the stables, dear. See that the carriage is cleaned up. We don’t want to go to Shalimar looking like a party of Southend trippers.’ He bent and kissed her hair.

They drove back from the picnic lunch in the great Mogul gardens after three o’clock, the children dozing fitfully between
ayah
and Diana on one seat, himself and Joan opposite, the
khitmatgar
in full livery smart on the box beside the
syce
, the fox terrier Shikari sitting proudly between them. Shalimar was very beautiful, Warren thought. All the works of the Moguls had a great strength and calm, at least the early ones. The Taj Mahal felt flashy and somehow foreign after one had really absorbed Fatehpur Sikri and the Red Fort. He had tried to point out to Diana some of the special graces of Shalimar. She listened, because he was her brother--he could tell that she was not really interested; but the crowds of Indians in the gardens had held her attention. After six months she could barely tell a Sikh from a Muslim, but that didn’t matter for it was always the children that absorbed her--they, and the marks of poverty and disease, which were prominent enough even in this rich capital of a rich province.

The carriage rolled past the garrison cricket field, and Warren saw that a match was in progress. He said, ‘Who’s playing?’

‘The Club against Ravi State,’ Joan said. ‘I saw the announcement last week but didn’t tell you in case you decided to play instead of taking us to Shalimar, as you’d promised.’

Warren laughed. ‘Naughty puss ... Well, I think I’ll watch for a bit. Might as well doze in one of the chairs here as at home.’

The children woke up. ‘Daddy, Daddy, can we watch too?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You go home with Mummy.
Idder rokna, Afzal
... No, Shikari, home you go, a cricket field’s no place for an inquisitive little dog. Do you want to spend an hour or so here, Diana? Good ... See you about five, dear. We’ll walk back.’

He waved briefly as the carriage rolled away. It was no use even asking Joan whether she would like to watch the cricket. She wouldn’t.

He found empty chairs among those set up outside the pavilion, and greeted a few friends. ‘Who’s batting?’ he asked his neighbour.

‘Fellow at the crease is Krishna Ram, Yuvraj of Ravi. He’s the captain, of course, though he’s only twenty-five or twenty-six. Couldn’t have a subject ordering his prince about, could they? Don’t know the fellow at the other end’s name. Doesn’t matter, for he won’t be there long, I can see. But the Yuvraj ... oh, good shot! ‘ The lithe figure in white bent, the bat swung powerfully, the red ball whistled along the dried grass past the pavilion. Diana clapped heartily. Warren settled down to watch, and was rewarded with half an hour of grace, during which the young Indian prince scored forty runs. Two wickets fell and then the Yuvraj, seeming to grow careless, hit across a good-length ball and was clean bowled.

‘That’s the trouble with these people,’ Warren’s neighbour muttered, ‘no perseverance.’

The Yuvraj was walking back to the pavilion, his bat under his arm, taking off his batting gloves. Everyone was applauding politely, except Diana who was on her feet, clapping enthusiastically. The prince glanced at her and acknowledged her with a little nod and a touch of his hand to the long peak of his yellow and white cap. ‘He looked as though he knew you,’ Warren said.

‘In a way. He was standing next to us at the parade this morning. We didn’t speak, though.’

‘Well, we could now. They’re taking tea.’

Diana at his side, he strolled under the awning set up behind the pavilion. The Yuvraj, divested of pads and cap, came in rubbing his hands. Warren said, ‘A pretty knock--except the last stroke.’ He smiled.

The Yuvraj said, ‘I know, sir. I ought to be ashamed of myself.’

‘You’re the Yuvraj of Ravi, aren’t you? I’m Warren Bateman, 44th Bengal Lancers.’

‘I recognize you from the parade this morning. I thought your squadron was the best. Of course that may be because they are Rajputs, like us.’ He laughed lightly, a fresh boyish laugh.

Warren said, ‘This is my sister, Diana. She’s staying with us.’

‘In the fishing fleet,’ Diana said with a smile, ‘though I haven’t caught anything ... or is it me who’s supposed to be caught?’

The prince was the same height as Warren, about five-foot-ten, but slimmer, his skin the colour of wheat, his hair shining black and wavy, his eyes dark brown and deep set under strong straight eyebrows. He was bowing awkwardly to Diana, obviously a little ill at ease with her. He wouldn’t have much knowledge or experience of European society, living up in that remote pleasant little kingdom nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas.

‘Where did you learn your cricket?’ Warren asked idly.

‘My grandfather employed an English professional when I was a boy. Then I had a tutor, Mr. Charles Fleming. He played for Oxford. Have you heard of him?’

‘Fraid not,’ Warren said. ‘Well, whoever it was taught you well. You could be another Ranji, if you put your mind to it. And time, of course. And went to England.’

‘I’d love to,’ the young man sighed, ‘but ...’--he spread his hands--’My grandfather says my place is in Ravi, with our people. If my father were alive, perhaps I could, but he is dead, so I am the heir.’

They sipped tea. The prince looked surreptitiously at Diana when she looked somewhere else. Twice Warren thought that he was trying to frame some polite remark to her, but didn’t know how. He remained silent. Diana smiled at him and he smiled back.

Suddenly he blurted out, ‘I’ll be seeing you at Ratanwala Camp, sir.’

Warren said, ‘Oh? Of course, I forgot, the Ravi Lancers are coming down to act as enemy for us. But I didn’t know you were serving in them.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m a major, the Second-in-command.’

‘Then for heaven’s sake don’t call me “sir”. I’m only a captain and should be calling you “sir”.’

‘Yes, sir ... Captain Bateman.’ The prince smiled again. ‘But you know I’d only be a subaltern in your regiment ... if I were allowed into it.’

‘I wish I could come to Ratanwala, too,’ Diana said.

‘We don’t allow camp followers in the Indian Army--haven’t for a long time,’ Warren said, grinning.

‘And afterwards I’ll be going home ..

‘Are you going home?’ the Yuvraj said, his face falling.

‘On February the 4th,’ she said.

The prince said, ‘I was hoping ... I was going to ask Captain Bateman if you would all like to visit Ravi. It is very beautiful. Of course, it is only a small state, and our capital, Basohli, is not much more than a village. But ... we have very good snipe shooting ... some duck ... cricket ... polo . . .

Warren shook his head, ‘Very kind of you, Yuvraj, but there just isn’t time. Now, Di, we’d better be getting back. Goodbye, Yuvraj. See you at Ratanwala.’

‘Goodbye, sir. Goodbye, Miss Bateman.’

‘Goodbye, Yuvraj,’ she said. She smiled and held out her hand. He took it and bowed awkwardly, the pale gold of his skin suffusing with a blush.

They walked away round the edge of the ground. The sun was low over the distant trees and the blue smoke of cooking fires rose from the hidden bungalows of the cantonment to mingle with the dust from trotting carriages and exercising horses.

‘Seems a nice chap,’ Warren said. ‘Though I don’t envy these princes at all ... raised as petty gods to find when they grow up that they really have no responsibility. I believe Ravi comes under the Agent to the Governor General for the Hill States ... A lot of them take to drink, or worse. I can’t say I blame them.’

‘It’s a shame we can’t visit it,’ Diana said, ‘but it can’t be helped.’

‘No ... When you get home, let me know at once if there’s any trouble between Joan and Mother, won’t you?’

‘Oh, there won’t be!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘No one quarrels with Mother.’

‘No, but Joan has her own ideas about so many things--the way the children ought to be brought up ... this Harz-Goldwasser method ... the way she dresses, eats, acts ... It looks pretty odd sometimes. Mother might not approve.’

‘Don’t worry, Warrie,’ his sister said, taking his arm. ‘We’ll all get along famously until you come home in August. And I’m so sorry you wasted so much time and trouble trying to find me a husband. I’ll just have to reconcile myself to dying an old maid, won’t I? ... By the way, are you going to take Shikari to camp?’

‘I thought I’d have to. Joan never sees that he’s properly exercised ... but you’ll be here, won’t you? I’d rather not take him unless I have to.’