The Strangler Vine (13 page)

Blake nodded. We rode on.

‘Lieutenant Mauwle, did you ever find the thieves who attacked us on the road to Jubbulpore?’ Blake called out.

‘Yes.’

‘And what’s to become of them?’

‘They are to be food for the worms, Mr Blake. They resisted capture, so we shot them. I strung them from a tree as a warning.’

I felt so all in by the time we returned that I went straight to my bed. A few minutes later Blake came in with a bowl of curry and a rice cake and another of the doctor’s vile powders.

‘Why do you force these things on me when you have such a low opinion of the doctor?’ I said irritably.

‘They are not the doctor’s powders, they are mine,’ Blake said.

‘Yours! What do you know of fevers?’

‘More than any army sawbones.’

‘What is it, then? Where did you come by it?’ Silence. ‘I will not drink it unless you tell me.’

‘It works. That’s all you need to know.’

I put a damp cloth over my eyes and lay back. ‘Mr Blake, I swear that you would let me perish rather than reveal a single detail touching yourself. I’ve never known anyone so keen to ask questions and so reluctant to answer them.’

‘How’ – I went on after a few minutes of silence – ‘how do I know that your powder does not bring on fever rather than take it away, and that you force it on me to keep me ill so you can do whatever it is you occupy yourself with here? And, by the way, I should like to know what you
are
doing here.’

Blake sighed. ‘It’s called
quing-hau
. I had it from a fellow up near Saharanpore by the Thibet border years ago. It’s a kind of wormwood, which accounts for the bitter taste. It’s the best cure for fever I’ve ever found. Though of course, I could be lying. It might be poison.’

I drank it up.

‘What were you doing at the Thibet border?’

‘Company business.’

That night my dreams were of Thugs and blood. I was glad to be woken by Mir Aziz.

‘Major invites you to his garden this afternoon, if you are well enough,’ he said. ‘Will you say yes?’

‘Is Blake in?’

‘He is not, Chote Sahib.’

‘I will say yes.’

In the shadow of a cluster of toddy palms, the Major surveyed his garden. He seemed quite immune to the heat, though his nose had gone scarlet and there was a constant trickle of perspiration from his forehead.

‘May I say, Lieutenant, how sorry I am that you had to witness so ghastly a sight as yesterday’s exhumation. At least you can now comprehend the evil we struggle against. And it is most kind of you to accept my invitation. I am afraid that anyone who shows a modicum of interest is thus importuned. Do not let me over-exert you. My wife reminds me that I have a tendency to forget others’ needs. How are you today? Arm still in the sling I see.’

‘Better today, thank you, sir, though still a little tired.’ I had no idea where Blake was. ‘And I am glad to be here, sir. A garden such as this, it reminds me of home.’

‘Does it? What do you see, Lieutenant Avery?’

‘Ah,’ I ventured a little nervously, ‘coconut palms, tamarisk, mango, young teak over there, a small neem, pomegranate …’

‘You have a countryman’s eye,’ said the Major. ‘I love the pomegranate’s gaudy red flower. These are blooms you could never find in an English garden. And over there a jackfruit tree, another exquisite bloom. Custard apple – so much better looking than they taste, I always think, but the natives love them. Now, what are these?’

I followed his brisk stride between the beds, felt myself begin to droop in the heat, and surreptitiously loosened my cravat.

‘The garden is not merely a pleasure and our orchard, Lieutenant Avery, it is also my “laboratory”. I improve our yields with scientific methods which I then endeavour to pass on to the ryots, and I am teaching my gardeners to prune and irrigate. I firmly believe it is our duty as rulers to demonstrate to the people of this country that we have their best interests at heart.’

‘Is that what prompted your campaign against the Thugs, sir?’

The temperature suddenly fell several degrees.

‘As I said before, Lieutenant, we do not discuss Thuggee and certainly not at home,’ the Major said sharply.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, mortified.

‘No,’ he said, relenting at once. ‘I am sorry. Your question is reasonable. I am stuck in my habits. The Thuggee Department has crushed the Thugs by means of the strict and persistent application of a precise system. As part of this I demand absolute obedience. I forget that it is a different matter beyond Jubbulpore and that I myself have made the Thugs a subject of discussion in the wider world. Though I confess the extent of the excitement and interest they provoke seems extraordinary to me. To answer your question: for me, ridding the natives of this plague of murderers is both a duty and a demonstration of our intentions and our effectiveness.

‘My duties in the Thuggee bureau are another reason I so love the garden, Mr Avery. As I think I have mentioned, I was recently made Commissioner for Thuggee and dacoity throughout India.’ His pleasure in his promotion was unmistakeable. ‘Living in the shadow of such darkness, delving into it as deeply as I have, is a burdensome thing. The weight of those horrors can be hard to shake off.’

He leant forward and scrutinized some long spiky leaves. ‘May I ask you, Lieutenant, have you known Mr Blake long?’

‘No, sir, I met him only shortly before we left Calcutta.’

‘Indeed.’ He took out a paring knife and began to cut an odd-looking green and yellow nubbly fruit from its base. ‘Please, do not feel obliged to say anything you would rather not, but he is a most surprising man.’

‘I am afraid I know very little about him. I believe he was formerly a common soldier who worked his way up to Captain. I have never come across anyone so good at asking questions and so reluctant to answer them.’ Before the words were out I wished I had not said them.

‘I like a man who rises by his own efforts,’ said the Major mildly.

‘Of course, now he works for Government House. They seemed to think he was the only man for the job.’ In my embarrassment I laughed.

‘Well,’ said Major Sleeman, ‘he is certainly something of an enigma. And he has an extraordinary grasp of Persian. You might let him know that I am aware he has been asking questions of my staff.’ He stared at his paring knife. He drew himself up, his jaw locked and his hand closed over the knife. Through clenched teeth he said very slowly and emphatically, ‘I must ask that he desists.’

He strode off to a new vantage point, beckoning me to follow. ‘My one regret,’ he said, ‘is that I cannot plant peepul trees here. I like them most particularly – those delicate pale green leaves that rustle. The natives say it is the gods sitting in the branches that make them do so.’ He smiled. ‘But their roots ruthlessly undermine any building. It makes me think of how I conceive of my work in Jubbulpore: preserving and encouraging the best of native custom and introducing European advances, while uprooting those evils that lurk in Hindooism – Thuggee, widow-burning, infanticide – so they cannot undermine the good. Ah, here is my nephew. I have arranged for him to escort you back.’

Captain Pursloe walked into the garden, his reluctance evident in every stiff step.

‘It is most kind of you, but I would not dream of distracting the Captain from his work,’ I said.

‘Nonsense! James can show you what we have accomplished in Jubbulpore.’

Pursloe rode ahead of me. His rigid back could not have more perfectly expressed his exasperation with his task, though why he should have so thoroughly taken against us I did not know.

Evening was not long off, and the natives were out carrying water pots or bundles of vegetables and fruit. Jubbulpore was not especially distinguished, but I was once again struck by how clean and clearly thriving it was. On every road there were small tanks shaded by tamarind trees, and new buildings seemed to be rising up everywhere. Beyond the town, the fields were in luxuriant cultivation: nature both fruitful and tamed.

‘Is an escort really necessary? The town seems so orderly and so peaceful I cannot imagine there could be anything to fear.’

‘There is a hanging in a few days. It is always a difficult time,’ Pursloe said coolly. ‘Besides, we have had a number of burglaries – even in Jubbulpore it is not always possible to keep evil at bay.’

‘Nevertheless, the place is most handsomely kept.’

Pursloe’s pride in his uncle overrode his dislike of me.

‘Major Sleeman created Jubbulpore. It was a nothing after the Maratha wars and it is far from a plum, but he has transformed it. Soon there will be half a regiment here, and a department of engineers and munitions. Planters arrive every month. And, of course, there is the School of Industry, the new model prison for our Approvers and their families.’

‘We are to see it tomorrow. I must say I am surprised that they should have a special place to live.’

‘It is the Major’s idea. They were promised their lives and security for their families in return for turning King’s evidence. It is a way of ensuring their children are not lured into Thuggee and will allow them to be productive. Major Sleeman has in mind to set up a carpet manufactory in the prison. He wishes to have their children educated. We are waiting to hear from Calcutta if they may be taught to read and write.’

‘You admire the Major very much.’

He turned sharply as if he suspected I was somehow teasing him.

‘He is a great man. And he and my aunt – Mrs Sleeman – have been like a father and mother to me. I came out to Madras when I was very young; they have taken great pains with me.’

‘What becomes of the prisoners who are not Approvers?’

‘There is a prison on the north side of Jubbulpore for those awaiting trial or hanging, and those serving out sentences.’

‘Might I see that?’

‘No.’

‘How big is it?’

‘I cannot divulge such details.’

‘And you cannot tell me about Mountstuart either.’ The heat was making my head ache and my temper was suffering. ‘Though you could. Your uncle is not here.’

‘How dare you ask me about him!’

I rode up behind him. ‘I do not pretend to know why you have so clearly taken against us, Captain Pursloe, but the sooner we find out what became of him, the sooner we can leave.’

He did not acknowledge that I had spoken, and after a few minutes I gave up hope of an answer. But as we drew up to the gates of the compound he burst out, ‘He was a cad. He may be celebrated elsewhere, but we all disliked him intensely.’

‘Mountstuart is a great man and a brilliant poet,’ I said.

‘Have you met him?’ he scoffed. I did not answer. ‘I did not think so. Let me tell you, we do not know where he went. He did not choose to inform us of his departure, which was typical.’ He looked away. ‘My uncle – Major Sleeman – allowed that man into the Thuggee Department. He went about as if he owned the place, with that infernal monkey all over him like some malevolent imp. He was disgustingly rude to my uncle. He talked a deal of nonsense about the Thugs. He made a romance of them, called them outlaws. Rot! I have seen what they do to their victims. There is nothing picturesque about them, let me assure you. I
loathed
him.’ Pursloe’s face contorted with rage. ‘And now you and your civilian are here, raising things that are best left alone. Wasting our time, and what for? For
nothing
.’

We glared at each other.

‘You should just go to Doora. Mountstuart was apparently a boon companion of the Rao – and a more corrupt and dishonest native prince you will not find.’

We met the Major at the School of Industry, a great square red and white fort, its entrance crowned with a vast triangular pediment. We had already been conducted on the tour, and seen the outside walls being painted by a troop of wretched skinny convicted Thugs, shackled to each other by leg irons, and observed by sepoys brandishing muskets. We’d seen the inside too: clean, white, as yet almost unoccupied, no prison bars or cells. At the far end of the courtyard some Approvers were building the huts they would occupy with their families, just as the sepoys did on the military lines.

‘Whom do we have here?’ the Major said, beaming. ‘Choka – a strangler; Golab and Aviga, both jemadars of their own gangs; Gumoosh, a second-in command to a powerful jemadar; and Motee, an inveigler. Between them I think they have upward of one hundred murders upon their consciences. They speak a rather specialized dialect which you may find a little difficult to follow, Mr Avery.’ The Approvers knelt and Sleeman launched into a flood of native talk, which I – too craven to admit my ignorance – pretended to follow.

It appeared to be some kind of lecture; as the Major spoke, the Approvers nodded, looking thoughtful. It was most peculiar watching the smiling, paunchy old men in their cotton coats, having witnessed a few days before victims of the horrors they had once performed. They might have been a group of village elders beneath a banyan tree. One had lost an eye, which gave him a rascally aspect. Another glowered ferociously beneath a ledge of bristling eyebrow. But the others might have been plump, benevolent grandfathers, and the Major himself looked on like a proud father. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, the Major dismissed them and we withdrew to the shelter of the portico.

‘Are you not reluctant to remind them of their old lives?’ said Blake, as we stood in the cool, watching them.

‘I believe it never hurts to have them revisit their crimes in bright daylight. To remind them of how they lived in darkness, and to encourage them in the habit of speaking the truth. One can go too far, of course. My old assistant up in Lucknow, Captain Paton, gets his Thugs to enact their crimes, to demonstrate the use of the scarf or
rumal
for visitors. I find that distasteful.’

‘They all seem to be high-ranking Thugs – chiefs and stranglers.’

‘Men of high status are of most use to us. They have more to tell; they know the plans, the circumstances of the crimes and what was gained. The lower sort often move among gangs or Thug for a season here or there, and have little understanding of the old traditions and beliefs.’

‘So the “lower sort” end up in the prison?’

‘That is a little harsh, Mr Blake. There are men of all castes and roles in the School of Industry, and in the prison,’ the Major replied. ‘The men here have of course committed grave crimes, but without them we could never have crushed Thuggee, and they will never be released. Their thirst for blood cannot be appeased. The temptation to return to killing would be too great.’

‘Temptation?’ said Blake. ‘That’s a strange word.’

‘The evidence shows that Thugging contaminates them, the urge to kill becomes a constant temptation.’

‘Does it?’

‘You have to understand, Mr Blake, that Thugging contaminates them, and that for many whose families have Thugged for generations, it has become almost an hereditary impulse. And of course, their worship of Kali commands them to such evil.’

‘Forgive me, Major, but you almost sound as if you believe in the power of Kali.’

The Major’s faced clouded.

‘I mean no offence,’ said Blake. ‘So, the children will live here too?’

‘As I said, Thuggee runs in families, like a contagion. Without supervision the sons would go on to become the next generation.
Wives and children must therefore be incarcerated too. But as you see, the conditions are quite unlike a normal prison. Can you imagine anything as well conceived in England?’

‘But the children have committed no crime,’ Blake said.

Major Sleeman cleared his throat. ‘We must cut this off, Mr Blake, root and branch, root and branch. I have high hopes, however, that with education these children can be raised up, and one day they may possibly be released. Let us not disagree on this. Now, I think the Lieutenant is keen to see the famous Feringhea?’

‘I am indeed, Major,’ I said quickly. I realized, as the Major did not, that Blake was angry.

‘I must tell you something about Feringhea before you meet him,’ said Sleeman. ‘As you may know, he is called the Prince of Thugs. His family are Brahmins from north-east of Gwalior, Thug leaders for generations; his uncle made a fortune by Thugging, which is very rare. From his extreme youth Feringhea was famous for his abilities as an inveigler – the Thug who deceives the prey with fair words and charming manners. He led his first band when he was but twelve. He was at the heart of the Thug conspiracy, and when we captured him – it was, I think, seven years ago now – I knew that I would break Thuggee. He perfectly illustrates the terrible seduction of Thuggee for those who have been initiated into it. He might have had another life. For a time during the Maratha wars, he left Thugging and served under Sir David Ochterlony, as chief of his messenger service. Think: he arranged the dissemination of Company intelligence in the north! But the call of Thuggee was too strong and he returned to his old ways.

‘I knew we must take him, but he kept eluding us. To catch him I was forced to hang his nephew and arrest his family – though I was loath to do it. His love for his wife and child was so great that he could not bear to be too far from them. Instead of fleeing north beyond our reach, he took to sleeping a night in one of five villages so he would not be too far from them. I could not spare enough sepoys to watch all the villages at the same time, and so it took weeks, but we caught him in the end. I travelled to Saugor to escort him to Jubbulpore, and saw how valuable he would be. Though his
crimes were terrible – and I would say I am more familiar with them than any man but he – I saw that his intelligence, memory and knowledge would make him an exceptional Approver.’

‘And was he?’ I said.

‘Indeed he was. We owe the capture and prosecution of hundreds of Thugs to him, and of course he has furnished me with invaluable descriptions of Thuggee itself.’

We set off toward a small cottage that stood by itself on the other side of the yard some way away from the Approvers’ huts. It had small high windows in plaster walls, and the door had three large locks.

Major Sleeman entered first. The sepoy and his nujeebs, holding their muskets in a manner which did not suggest entire easiness, came next, and finally we two. It was dark and it took a moment to adapt to the light.

There were two sepoys, a small table with a candle, two chairs, and a rug, and on this, cross-legged, his back supported by several large bolsters, sat a still, dark native. Major Sleeman spoke, and though I could not understand the words, it did not strike me as the way a gaoler commonly addressed a prisoner. The native looked into Sleeman’s eyes, and his voice was soft and murmuring. He smiled slightly as he spoke, and the Major half-smiled back, as if both had forgotten that there were others in the room.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Major said at last. ‘May I present Feringhea, our most important Approver. He is willing to answer your questions.’

He wore no shackles and was dressed in a simple white kurti and dhoti and a neatly tied orange turban. He had evidently been handsome as a young man. Now his cheeks were gaunt with age, the flesh on his arms and shoulders sagged over the muscle, and his moustache and beard were more grey than black. His face was long and aristocratic, his nose aquiline and thin. He had a large full mouth. But his eyes were unnerving: wide, unblinking, olive green speckled with black, like some appraising reptile. He was entirely composed and gave no appearance of humility. He sat as if the whole room were at his command, and there was something excessively probing in his gaze that I did not like, as if
with a look he was convinced he might place us all under his spell.

Nor did I relish having to admit at this moment that I spoke no Hindoostanee. I looked hopefully again at Blake. But it was the Major who rescued me: ‘Feringhea will not speak Hindoostanee. If you do not have Persian you may speak English and we will translate.’

Again I glanced at Blake.

‘Ask what you like,’ he said. ‘When will you ever again speak to a Thug?’

I thought for a moment. I did not want to appear stupid. I did not want to seem impressed. ‘I would like to ask him if there is any true difference between a Thug and any other thief.’

The Major translated. The question seemed to offend him, for he sat up haughtily, spoke in the same soft, persuasive tone; once again, the Major translated.

‘Feringhea says that a thief is a contemptible being, but a Thug rides his horse, wears his dagger, shows a front! Mere thieving? Never! If a banker’s treasure were before him, even entrusted to his care, even if he was hungry or dying he would spurn to steal it. But let a banker go on a journey and he would certainly murder him.’

As the Major spoke the Thug’s words, a chill stole over me though the room was warm. For a moment he seemed not to be himself but only the mouthpiece of the Thug. I would have stopped there, but the Major said, ‘Do you have another question?’

‘Does he feel any remorse for his crimes?’ I asked. Feringhea turned his cold green eyes on me as he spoke.

‘He says,’ the Major said – and the Thug looked back at him, and I was relieved – ‘when he Thugged, it was as it is when the sahibs hunt big game. You hunt tigers and boar, he hunts men. You have only the instincts of the wild beasts to overcome, whereas he has to subdue the suspicions and fears of intelligent men and women, often heavily armed and guarded. He asks, can you not imagine the pleasure of the pursuit, of overcoming such protection during days of travel in their company, the joy of seeing suspicion change to friendship, until that wonderful moment arrives when the
rumal
completes the
shikar
? The soft
rumal
, which has ended the life of hundreds? Remorse? Never! Joy and elation, often!’

I shuddered.

‘But Thuggee is being defeated. Why does he think that is?’

‘He says that the goddess turned from the Thugs. They transgressed for the love of money. His band killed a number of women and others proscribed by the goddess. And now the
iqbal
– the power, the luck – of the Company is stronger than the Thugs and it has defeated them.’

‘Does he still worship the goddess?’

‘He says the goddess has turned her face from him.’

‘Is that why he turned Approver?’

‘He says, I am a Thug. My father and grandfather were Thugs, and I have Thugged with many. But before the sound of the Company’s drums, sorcerers, witches and demons take flight. How can Thuggee stand? Let the government employ me and I will do its work.’

As I fumbled for another question, Blake said, ‘
Iqbal
is an interesting word to use. Such a Mahommedan word for such a Hindoo cult.’

But I had another question. ‘I want to know, how did he choose his victims?’

The Major muttered with the Thug. ‘He says, when he is on the road, from the time that the omens are favourable, he considers as victims any the deity throws into his hands. If he and his gang were not to kill them, she will never again be propitious to them.’

‘Of course,’ said Blake, ‘if the Thugs had murdered Europeans as well as natives, the Company would have run them down years ago.’ I could tell he was impatient.

The Major looked pained. Feringhea looked at him questioningly, and he translated. They murmured together. The Major straightened up, and the enchantment at last dropped away from him.

‘The jemadar does not wish to offend,’ he said, frowning, ‘but I believe he thinks the blood of Europeans would not be acceptable
to the goddess. This stems, I understand, from the Hindoo belief that the touch of an unbeliever is tainted.’

There came a knock at the door. It was Pursloe. He gave us a sullen look and told the Major he was needed back at the Thuggee bureau.

‘May I ask a few more questions?’ said Blake, suddenly animated. ‘I will never have another opportunity. Perhaps your nephew might stay to oversee us?’

The Major havered. He was disconcerted by Blake, but also eager to be gone.

‘James will stay with you,’ he said, ‘and return to the bureau afterwards. The hanging is tomorrow. You are welcome to attend it, but by no means obliged to. I bid you good day.’ He bowed to Ferginhea and strode from the room. I could hear him calling to the sepoys as he walked away.

Pursloe looked extremely put out.

Blake began to talk to Feringhea in Persian. I understood nothing, but it seemed to me that under his questioning the Thug’s air of macabre threat diminished, and with every minute he seemed just another wily rascal. At the same time, however, Pursloe became increasingly exasperated. At last he burst out, ‘That is
enough
, Mr Blake.’

Blake and the Thug looked at Pursloe with surprise and something else – in Blake’s face something like pity; in the Thug’s, something like contempt.

The sepoys opened the door and we followed the Captain out. I turned for a last sighting of Feringhea; he had settled back on to his cushions and was watching us with an expression of great complacency; I should almost have said that Pursloe’s discomposure pleased him. The Captain stalked his way through the School of Industry and out of its gates, every step a little explosion of rage.

‘Sir,’ he said to Blake at last, ‘my uncle made it quite clear and yet you asked those questions against his express request. You realize I shall have to inform him.’

‘Will you? And did you also inform him that you had spoken of Mountstuart to my assistant?’

Pursloe glowered.

‘I don’t think your uncle told Feringhea not to speak of Mountstuart.’ Blake touched Pursloe’s arm. ‘We don’t seek to do him any harm.’

Pursloe trembled, walked jerkily to his horse, mounted it stiffly and rode off without a backward glance.