Tiger Claws (56 page)

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Authors: John Speed

BOOK: Tiger Claws
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“We must hurry,” Shivaji answers. “Afzul Khan. He’s destroying Adoli temple.”
 
 
A makeshift camp has sprung up near the turnoff of the Poona Road. A few sentries stand up wearily as they hear the sound of their approaching ponies. “Hanuman!” one of them shouts. “We thought you must be dead!”
“Not dead, just slow!” Hanuman urges his pony forward. In the clearing are a cluster of soldiers. Some look up as he passes; some wave their fists; some shout his name; some boo. “Who’s in charge?” Hanuman asks.
“Him, maybe,” the soldier answers, pointing. “I don’t a give a shit.” In the center of a crowd, Hanuman sees Jedhe, arguing with some men. The words are unclear, but not the tone; the voices loud and full of blame.
“Here comes Hanuman!” Jedhe shouts.
Soon a dozen men surround him. “What’s going on?” asks Hanuman.
“Mutiny,” Jedhe whispers calmly, but the worry shows in his face.
Just then Iron strides into the circle. “You’d think they’d never seen a battle,” he growls.
“Most of them haven’t,” Hanuman answers. “Not until tonight.”
“You’re going to have to act fast,” Iron tells him. “A lot of them are leaving.”
“One battle! One battle and they quit!” Jedhe spits. “Cowards.”
“It isn’t cowardice to run from certain death,” Iron says. He turns to Hanuman, face taut. “These men are ready to kill you.”
“Why?” Hanuman looks baffled.
Iron slaps him on the back. “Part of the pleasure of command. Win, and they’ll follow you through fire. Lose, lose even once, and they turn on you like jackals. You’ve started off losing. Nothing’s worse than that.”
Hanuman looks at the faces of the soldiers in the camp lit by fire glow. They’re drawn and serious, and some are wild with anger. He turns, and turns, and sees not one friendly face, until he’s made the whole circuit and looks back at Iron. “What should I do now, uncle? They’re starting to wander off! I must get them back!”
“How? How do you mean to do it?” Iron asks, staring at him levelly.
“I don’t know, uncle. I need to think.”
“You don’t have time.” Iron frowns. “Fortunately, I came prepared. I can get an hour for you, maybe. Expect no more! And watch out for tiger claws.” With that he strides into the hostile crowd.
Jedhe shrugs. “He’s right about the tiger claws, cousin. A lot of these men are angry. I wouldn’t stand too close.”
From somewhere Iron has scrounged a black cauldron. Soon the smell of frying mustard seed and coriander floats through the air. As Iron cooks, he sings: a song about a soldier with a woman in every town—Lakshmi in Adoli whose ass was roly-poly, Parvati in Welhe, whose slit was kind of smelly—on and on. Soon a circle forms. Iron stirs the pot, and waves his ladle in the air to keep the beat.
As Iron sings, Hanuman moves to the edge of the crowd, where exhausted men sit at a distance. “Wait a little while,” he says, reaching out to touch an arm or shoulder. “Get some food.” He nods toward the fire, toward the steam from the boiling dal, toward the laughter. Some of the men ignore him; others shrug at one another and amble over to join the others.
In the dawn light, Hanuman sees just how exhausted the men look. Their heads droop forward as they eat.
Jedhe catches up with him. “Iron says it’s up to you. You’ve got to say something. You’ve got to inspire them. Otherwise they’ll just go.”
Iron is finishing the song about the man whose lingam was so long it needed a shoe when Hanuman steps to his side. The men who had been laughing grow suddenly silent. Then from the rear comes a long boo, and another, and soon the air is filled with booing.
A voice shouts out, “Let’s hear what the bastard has to say!” Soon there’s shouts of “Quiet down!” The crowd readies itself to listen.
“Men,” he starts off, “our lands are under attack!”
“Your lands,” says a heckler. “My land’s just fine!” The boos begin again.
“Look here,” shouts Iron, rising to his feet. “Do you call yourselves men? You’re acting like goats! This man’s an officer, isn’t he? So give him some room!” With that he lumbers back to his seat.
Hanuman tries again. “Should we just lie down like dogs while that jackal Afzul Khan insults us? Should we run away? What about our honor?”
From the back the heckler calls again: “Ain’t no honor when you’re fucking dead, captain!”
Jedhe leaps up. “Who said that? Step forward and show yourself.” But now the men close ranks, hiding the heckler, and boos and shouts of anger start again to fill the air.
“He’s right!” comes a clear voice, calling loudly.
They all turn to see Shivaji on his pony, followed by Tanaji and Bandal. The crowd opens a pathway for him.
“What good is honor anyway? Who should die for honor?” Shivaji looks around the circle. “Can you eat honor? Can you spend honor?”
“You can’t fuck honor either!” shouts the heckler, and everybody laughs.
“No,” Shivaji says. “So why die for honor?” His face grows hard. “Why die for anything?” He pulls out his sword; its bright blade whistles through the morning air. “Why do I even have this sword? Is nothing worth dying for?” Shivaji glares at the men, one by one, as if challenging them.
“Your own life?” comes the heckler’s voice, now uncertain.
Shivaji shrugs.
“What about your family?” shouts another man. Shivaji shrugs again. “What about to defend your home, lord?” shouts a voice from the back.
Shivaji looks up. “Would you die to defend your home?”
“Yes, lord,” the man replies.
“Good for you!” Shivaji waves to the man. “Step forward, fellow.”
The man shuffles forward, a tubby barefoot fellow with a disheveled turban and a greasy beard. An old bare sword bangs against his thick legs. He stands before Shivaji as though expecting to be struck.
“But would you let me fight with you?” Shivaji asks. “Would you let me die with you—to defend your home?”
“Sure!” the man answers, looking stunned.
“Swear that you will let me join you!” Shivaji says, his eyes on fire. “Swear it, that we may be brothers!”
“Well, sure you can join me!” He looks around at his comrades, enjoying the stupid joke. “Of course I swear it!”
“Then let it be so, brother,” Shivaji answers, looking pleased. “Give my brother here a decent sword.” Instantly, Jedhe unsheathes his own sword, and hands the jeweled hilt to the startled farmer.
“Anyone else?” Shivaji calls out. The faces turned up toward him are full of consternation. “Who else will let me join him? Who else will let me stand beside him, until death takes me? Who will have me for a brother?”
“I will, lord!” a voice calls out. “And me!” “And me!” soon the crowd is clamoring, calling out “Lord!” and “Shivaji!” and “Brother!”
“Then I will join you all!” he cries. “My sword ever ready at your side! My life to stand beside you! I will be your brother if you’ll have me!” The crowd erupts with cheers. Soon they all are yelling, and the chant begins:
“Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”
Soon the men are shuffling in a silly dance, waving their weapons in the air:
Har, har, mahadev!”
Suddenly Shivaji’s voice cuts through the air. “But hold!” The chanting stops. “Would you do the same for me? Will you stand beside me against a murderer? Against a jackal who would kill me and all my family? Against a brute who means to crush our gods beneath his heel?” He wheels his pony, sword aloft, looking at them all. “Will you help me, brothers?”
“Yes!”
And now the bedlam cheering starts, the swords and lances flash in the morning sun. Shivaji raises the sword Bhavani high above his head. And if he says more, no one knows, for the morning skies now ring with cheers:
“Har, har, mahadev! Har, har, mahadev!”
 
 
Outside the doorway of the upstairs room in the Rang Mahal in Poona, Trelochan stands with Bala. The incense in the air cannot hide the smell of
dying. The door cracks open, spilling light into the corridor, and Sambhuji steps out, his face pale. Bala spreads his arms. The boy runs to him and buries his face against his chest. “Why did I have to kiss her, uncle? She was fast asleep! She’ll never know I kissed her.”
“She’ll know,” Bala tells him, holding him tight. Then through the door walks Jijabai, calm and stately. She looks at them and shrugs.
“What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with mother?” Sambhuji cries.
“She’s gone away, Sam,” Trelochan says softly.
“Don’t coddle him,” says Jijabai. “Your mother is dead.”
“It’s your fault!” the boy cries. “You killed her.”
“No, child. She just died,” Jijabai replies. “Now you must be a man and face it.” But he wails and runs away. Bala looks to Jijabai, offering to catch him but she shakes her head.
“She never stirred,” she says, annoyed. “Not even to say goodbye to her own child.”
“The gods grant her peace,” Bala whispers.
Jijabai snorts. “She’ll have more peace than we will, Balaji.”
“I will tell Shivaji, madam,” says Trelochan.
“No, I’ll go,” Bala insists.
“Fools,” says Jijabai. “I need you here. We’ll send a courier. Anyway, what difference does it make?” She walks slowly through the shadowed corridor and down the narrow staircase, suddenly looking very old indeed.
 
 
“We must move quickly,” Shivaji says to Hanuman as they ride together on the road to Pratapghad. “I want to reach Pratapghad by nightfall.”
Hanuman’s eyes grow wide. “Can this happen, lord?”
“I rely on you to make it happen, Hanu,” Shivaji replies. Hanuman bows.
“That’s a hard order, lord,” says Bandal to Shivaji.
“But not impossible, I think,” Shivaji says. Hanuman wheels his pony and begins to shout orders.
Shivaji trots until he rides next to Jedhe. “I was glad for your help back there. You made all the difference.”
Jedhe shrugs but his face lights up. “You would have done it without me, lord. And now you have three thousand extra brothers.”
Shivaji smiles, then grows serious. “I need to ask someone to do a task that’s very dangerous.”
“Ask me, lord.”
Shivaji checks that no one can overhear them. “What’s wrong with my plan, Jedhe?”
“Nothing, lord.” Shivaji waits. “All right,” Jedhe says impulsively. “The flaw’s obvious. We’re off to Pratapghad. What’s to stop Afzul Khan from going straight to Poona, taking the gold and murdering your family?”
“Exactly. What can I do, Jedhe?”
“You must send someone to Afzul Khan. Lie to him. Say you’ve taken your family and the treasure to Pratapghad for safekeeping.”
“Who should I send, Jedhe? Anyone who would ride into the camp of Afzul Khan would be a fool indeed.”
“Maybe a fool could be found, lord.” Jedhe shakes his head. “What do you want me to say to Afzul Khan?”
They talk quietly for some time. Finally Jedhe bows and turns his horse, and trots back through the marching men. Though Hanuman calls to him, he does not answer, but trots on, head high, face set. Hanuman peers after him for a moment, and then spurs until he comes to Shivaji. “What’s happening with Jedhe?” he asks.
Shivaji tells him, and the color drains from Hanuman’s face. “Why the hell did you send him, lord? Why not Iron? Why not me?”
“What’s wrong with Jedhe?” Shivaji asks.
“Father says that he’s a traitor.” Hanuman looks back. “Do you want me to stop him?”
Shivaji peers behind him. “What’s done is done,” he replies. “We’ll play the cards we’re dealt. Maybe it will turn out right.”
 
 
“What’s needed, captain, is greater speed,” says Afzul Khan, leaning over the railing of his howdah to glare at the anxious face of his young captain.
“Of course, general,” the captain says, looking frantic, “but the pace is exhausting, sir. I fear the men …”
“You fear the men altogether too much, captain. Show some spine. Draw blood, and they’ll get the idea.”
“Yes, general. But will they be in any condition to fight?”
Afzul Khan sneers. “That’s my concern. Yours is speed. Put an empty cage at the end of the line … reserved for the last man to arrive.”
The captain gulps. “As you wish, general. I’m sure we’ll make better time, sir.”
“See that we do. The Abyssinians like using their whips, captain. Don’t be afraid to ask their help.”
 
 
The sun has risen high into the sky when Maya wakes. She sits up, and straightens her sari. In her sleep it became disheveled; her braid has come undone.

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