Zemindar (49 page)

However, not all the gentlemen who passed through Hassanganj were deserving of Mr Erskine’s censure, and one morning, at the beginning of May, I found my shipboard friend Mr Roberts taking
chota hazri
on the verandah with my host. He had travelled through the night, and had decided to take advantage of the proximity of Hassanganj to rest in comfort during the day.

‘I had not hoped for the pleasure of finding you still here,’ he said, as we sat down.

‘We did not expect to be here ourselves, but the baby arrived rather less than opportunely, so here we are.’

‘So Mr Erskine has just told me. Mother and child are well, I trust?’

‘Pretty well,’ I said, while Oliver added, ‘Confound ’em!’

‘Yes, I can imagine, Mr Erskine, that you are anxious for the welfare of your young relatives; this heat, y’know, apart from anything else.’ And though it was not yet six o’clock, Mr Roberts mopped his face and pointed out that the Brain-Fever bird was already calling, a sure indication that the day was to be a torrid one.

‘All the same,’ he went on, ‘they are certainly more comfortable here than they would be elsewhere, and probably a good deal safer too.’

‘You bring more alarms and rumours of war, then, Mr Roberts?’ I sighed and settled back for yet another recounting of the incidents and symptoms I had heard so much of recently. What would it be this time?

‘There are plenty of them about, Miss Laura,’ Mr Roberts answered, while Oliver watched him lazily through half-closed eyes. ‘I think I may safely say that this has been the most disquieting journey upriver I have ever made. Most disquieting. This business in Barrackpore, you’re heard of it of course, Mr Erskine? I remember how good your system of information is.’

‘Perhaps. There have been a number of incidents. Which one do you mean?’

‘At Barrackpore. A sepoy of the 34th Infantry, inflamed they say by
arak
or
bhang
, ran amok, tried to incite his fellows to mutiny and cut down a couple of his officers. Could have been serious; very serious. Fortunately, the man in command there—you will have heard of General Sir John Hearsey, of course—was sufficient to the occasion. With his two sons, undeterred by the fact that the sepoy was still armed, he rode out to where four hundred men of the 34th had stood by and watched the attack on their officers without protest. Seeing him approach, the sepoy, one Mangal Pandi, lost his nerve and turned his musket upon himself. He did not die then, but was executed some days later.’

‘Hm,’ commented Mr Erskine, ‘that was a mistake.’

‘What else could the General have done?’ retorted Mr Roberts with indignation. ‘The man had to be made an example of.’

‘That is very military thinking from you, Mr Roberts. Do you not see that this man—what did you say his name was?’

‘Pandi, Mangal Pandi.’

‘Mangal Pandi is now not only an example but a legend. Worst of all, a martyr. Making martyrs is a mistake, as the Jews once discovered to their cost.’

‘There was no alternative, surely? Particularly at a time like this.’

‘Most particularly at a time like this, it should have been avoided. Ignominious dismissal would have served General Hearsey as well, or penal servitude, or even an execution, delayed until the matter was forgotten.’

‘Well, perhaps you are right. It is disturbing. Very disturbing.’

We sat in silence for a time. The Brain-Fever bird’s call reached a frenetic crescendo, and then gave way to the three-note despair of a dove.

‘You have had no trouble here, of course?’ Mr Roberts commenced again.

‘Not yet, but I’m sorry to say there is no “of course” about it. Hassanganj is unlikely to escape the flame once the tinder is lighted. If it is allowed to be lighted.’

‘But surely, oh, come now, Mr Erskine, matters are very different here in the
mofussil
to what they are in Calcutta, or any cantonment? Why, you haven’t even a police outpost on your land.’

‘No. If trouble comes for me, it won’t be from the military element. I have tried to be just and a fair landlord; my people are probably as contented as any in Oudh. No, if we encounter trouble, it will come from another direction—my neighbours on three sides.’

‘Ah,
talukhdars
all. I had forgotten. But your relations with them have always been good, have they not?’

‘Generally, but what will that matter if it comes to every man for himself? One of them, I think, I can be fairly sure of … Wajid Khan, Laura, if it’s any comfort to know it. But the other two are acquisitive gentlemen both. Certainly neither would hesitate to put a bullet in my brain if it would mean an extra parcel of land for themselves. And, frankly, I wouldn’t blame them. Resettlement is an injustice, and they feel it more than any.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Even if the trouble is confined to the Army, believe me, our friends the
talukhdars
of Oudh are going to make capital of it. They don’t care a damn about caste; all this rot about crossing the sea, defiled cartridges and so on means very little to them. Their grievance is a great deal more practical. They have been dispossessed of their rightful inheritance. Give them half a chance to win that inheritance back, by whatever means, and they’ll take it. As I would.’

‘Yes, yes, I take your point.’

‘In Oudh, at least, any form of insurrection could be rightly termed a war for independence, Mr Roberts. Would you not agree?’

‘I would agree that that is how the
talukhdars
will look on it.’

‘They will be waging it too, Mr Roberts; make no mistake about that.’

‘Well, I am grieved to hear of this. I confess I had given the matter no very serious thought and, bearing in mind the unique stability of Hassanganj in the past, the equity with which you have dealt with your people, and your
rissal
, of course, I had thought that you must be undisturbed. Now I can see why you should be anxious.’

‘My
rissal
, forsooth! Four dozen brigands with matchlocks. They could be bought by the next
talukhdar
for an extra rupee a month. They are mercenaries; Rohillas most of ’em. And mercenaries are for sale to the highest bidder. They bear me little personal loyalty; and they’d bear their next employer just as little. No, Mr Roberts, I am a realist. I cannot depend on the devotion of any but a handful of personal servants, and those I would not strain to the point of denying their own people.’

‘You have of course a perfectly legitimate title to your land?’ Mr Roberts spoke as though he doubted it.

‘Perfectly. A deed of gift signed by the Nawab Asaf-ad-Doulah in 1795. But what of that? The
talukhdars
around me consider themselves the rightful owners of their properties, but that meddling fool of a Settlement Officer Thomason decided he knew better and that the land belonged to the
talukhdars
’ tenants. Which it doesn’t, mind you. Neither by Mogul law, nor by Oudh law nor by decent common sense. Having been dispossessed by the superior and most worthy legislation of the British, do you think when their hour strikes, they are going to hold back from taking what belongs to a Britisher?’

‘No, I see your point. This issue has been somewhat obscured in my mind by the military aspects of the situation. But of course what you say is very true. Thomason’s measures were most ill-advised, even though he acted on behalf of the
ryot
, whom you must admit, has known little consideration from the
talukhdars
.’

‘Everything, Mr Roberts, has been done too hastily; and in ignorance and arrogance. Now it is too late to mend matters. What disgusts me most is the indignation with which the news of the trouble here will be received by our lawmakers in London. How furiously they will disclaim their mistakes and blame all on the base ingratitude of the heathen Indian who has the temerity to love his lands with just the same grasping fervour with which every noble MP loves his manor set in ancient English fields.’

‘Yes, yes indeed,’ Mr Roberts sighed, though he managed to look, in spite of the heat, very cool and contained in his pale grey breeches and alpaca coat.

Heat haze already clouded the clear morning sky and, in the pause that followed, my eyes lingered on the long vista of lawns and gardens, giving way in the distance to wooded parkland and a glimpse of the top of Moti’s tower thrusting through the foliage of mangoes and sal woodland that formed the confines of the park.

I had become so accustomed to it all: the vast spaces, the huge pink house, the army of servants, the quiet routine of the day. I knew the names of the gardeners now and of all the house servants. I knew how many children they had, and where they lived, whether in the servants’ quarters or in the village beyond the park. I knew, too, a little of how they lived, and how small the contentments were they cherished: a bare mud-walled room, a string bed, one meal a day and, after work, a pull at the communal
hookah
while their children scrambled in the dust around them, and their friends told long countrymen’s stories of crop failure, water shortage and sudden flowering after God-given storm. I had learned a little about their gods, and I had an inkling of their fears: the fear of disease and unexplained death, enemies in this world and the next, uncountable, unnamable ghosts and bogies and hydra-headed devils, and the
bunnia
who owned them body and soul. And of their rare delights I knew something too: chanting processions to the temple or the mosque, marriages with cymbals and hand drums, bride and groom made modestly blind by strings of marigolds hanging before their faces, and a great
bhoj
to follow with mountains of sweetmeats and spiced pastries. From being strange, all these things had entered the fabric of my reality, woven day by day, in custom and monotony, into the warp and woof of my own mind.

Peaceful, placid, simple! Could it be possible that I had been so wrong, that my people had been so wrong? Could these thin brown men, shanks gleaming in the sun as they tended flowers, really turn on us, betray us, kill us? That morning the thought was inconceivable.

And then Mr Roberts turned to me and said he had recently come upon the Wilkins family again. They were in a small station a little to the east of us; the Major, like Wallace Avery, had been seconded to civilian duties.

‘It’s one of these new stations they’ve created. Merely a police post really, but Major Wilkins has a subaltern and a few sepoys under him, and a civilian assistant of some sort; so he is a happy man.’

‘How many Europeans are there?’ asked Oliver.

‘Six or seven, no more.’

‘Hmph!’ Oliver’s grunt expressed disapproval. ‘And there’s a woman there?’

‘Two,’ I informed him. ‘Elvira would never leave her Ma and Pa. Isn’t that right, Mr Roberts?’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Elvira’s there, and the poor young civilian looks rather hunted.’

‘Pity,’ said Oliver.

‘I did try to hint, you know, that the ladies might be better placed in Lucknow, but Major Wilkins wouldn’t hear of it. His men could be relied on, and so forth and so on. You know the usual attitude?’

‘I know.’

‘For myself, well, the unrest is almost tangible, particularly here in Oudh, but our people either will not or cannot realize it. Up and down the river I have found the same extraordinary complacency in the face of flagrant insubordination. Among the military, that is. The planters know what is happening. And the civil administration—sometimes.’

‘Henry Lawrence realizes, thanks be to God,’ commented Oliver in a tone that indicated his respect for the newly appointed Chief Commissioner of Oudh. For Henry Lawrence had won the admiration of all who knew of the strength, efficiency and probity he had brought to his administrative duties in the Punjab. It was these qualities that had brought him now to Lucknow, to placate the
talukhdars
, reassure the sepoys and ameliorate the effects of the measures instigated by the Chief Settlement Officer, Mr Thomason.

‘Yes, indeed! I hear he is fortifying the Residency and laying in provisions in case matters deteriorate. It is something.’

‘Very little more than nothing,’ retorted Oliver. ‘A waste of time. The Residency is incapable of fortification. Think, man! How can you adequately protect a cluster of buildings like that, perched on the highest point in the area, one flank right on the river, the others deep in the city, none of it more than partially walled. It is a preposterous position to strengthen.’

‘It is all he can do.’

‘True. His battle was lost last year with annexation. Now all he can really do is keep matters from coming to a head; and if there is any man who can do that, it is Lawrence. But his jurisdiction is only Oudh. And there’s a hell of a lot of India outside Oudh, Mr Roberts, a hell of a lot.’

Mr Roberts looked at me uncomfortably, not knowing how well used I was to Mr Erskine’s language.

Having completed his business in the upper sections of the Doab, Mr Roberts was on his way downriver to Calcutta again. As an indigo trader, the waterways were the main transport for himself, no less than his commodity, and his life seemed to hinge on what he referred to fondly (and inaccurately, as there were several) as ‘The River’. The conversation soon reverted to indigo exclusively.

He left again that evening.

‘I wish my forebodings on the ship had not been fulfilled, Miss Laura,’ he said as he shook my hand. ‘God only knows what is in store for us, but we must hope to meet again before long in happier circumstances. I shall look forward to renewing our acquaintanceship when things are better; at least you could not be in safer hands.’ And as he turned away to mount his horse, he threw me a half-whispered aside over his shoulder. ‘A great man in his own acres, Miss Laura! But where’s the hawk?’

I laughed, and watched him ride away down the avenue.

‘You have a very good understanding with Mr Roberts,’ observed Oliver drily, as we went indoors. ‘What did he say to you as he left?’

‘A joke,’ I answered. ‘Just an
intimate
joke.’

‘Indeed?’ said Mr Erskine.