The Faraway Drums. Jon Cleary
fastnesses kings had held no sway: a man lived and died subject only to his father, his village chief and the gods who ruled them all.
At the gates to the curving drive leading up to the Viceregal Lodge Farnol and his entourage were halted by two guards. The two soldiers prodded the tall dirty hillman and told him to clear out.
‘Nickle-jao! Piss off!’
‘I shall not piss off. I am Major Farnol, of Farnol’s Horse, reporting to Colonel Lathrop. Take that bayonet out of my belly.’
The soldiers peered at him, then one said to the other, ‘Escort him up to the house, Mick. Let them make up their mind who he is. Give him a poke up the arse if he tries anything. I’ll keep this lot down here.’
Farnol walked up the long sloping drive, the guard right behind him with his bayonet at the ready. He did not blame the soldiers for their attitude; one rarely found rankers who were happy in their work these days. A shilling and fourpence a day and a seven-year contract did nothing to make India an attractive tour of duty. Their devotion to duty had not been improved by the policies of the previous Viceroy, Lord Curzon, who had favoured more freedom and rights for the natives; nor had Lady Curzon, an American lady, fired them with enthusiasm when she had said that the two ugliest creatures in India were the water-buffalo and the British private soldier. A poke up the arse with a bayonet was something a man who looked like an Indian and claimed to be a British officer should not find unexpected or even unreasonable.
They came to the junction in the drive where one arm led to the rear of the huge house and the other to the portico over the front entrance. Farnol looked up at the mansion towering against the pale pink of the western clouds. Each time he came here he was amused by the extravagance of it, the incongruity of this massive country house that paid no respects to its foreign location. But it had the most magnificent site in Simla and he always enjoyed walking in its gardens. Ten years ago, when he had been a very junior aide on the staff of Lord Curzon, he had been standing on the south lawn when the Viceroy had come and stood beside him.
‘Have you a liking for vistas, Farnol? Are you long-sighted?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He knew that the Viceroy liked to think he had a poetic imagination.
‘I sit here and imagine I can see all of India all the way south to the Coromandel Coast.’ Tall though Farnol was, he always felt that the Viceroy was just that much taller. Curzon held his long narrow head in such a way that he always seemed to be looking down on people. It was partly his natural arrogance, but he also had back trouble which forced him to stand very upright: so can minor afflictions set one’s image for history. One of the last great imperialists, though neither he nor virtually anyone else saw it that way, he looked upon India as his own domain; he would not have been embarrassed by any modesty if it had been suggested that he should be crowned Emperor. ‘And I rule it all in the King’s name.’
A mere subaltern didn’t query such illusions of grandeur. ‘A great responsibility, sir.’
Then Curzon smiled, showing the sense of humour that was rarely seen. Or was it something else, a sense of irony at his claim to being long-sighted? ‘It is all just in one’s imagination.’
Then he had nodded abruptly and gone back to the house and Farnol had been left wondering. A breeze suddenly blew up, whispering through the deodars, and he had shivered, felt the chill of the unknown years ahead.
The bayonet poked him in the buttock. ‘Turn right, matey. We’re going in the back way.’
‘We’re going in the front way. Stick me in the arse again with that bayonet and I’ll shove it down your throat. What’s your name?’
The soldier lowered his rifle, shook his head, then snapped to attention. ‘You got to be an officer. No coolie would talk to me like that. Sorry, sir. Can’t be too careful.’
‘I said, what’s your name?’
‘Mick Ahearn, sir. Private Ahearn.’
‘Irish, eh? Are you with the Connaughts?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Farnol knew of the Connaught Rangers’ contempt for Indians; their unofficial motto was that those who had been conquered by the sword must be kept by the sword. Since swords were not standard issue, they settled for a jab with a bayonet or a boot up the behind of the conquered. ‘In future, Private Ahearn, make sure you have the right coolie before you start blunting your bayonet on him.’
Ahearn followed Farnol up to the big portico and waited while Farnol went up the steps and rang the bell beside the wide front doors. The Indian butler who answered the bell was even more brusque than the soldier had been in dismissing the dirty, ragged hillman. But Farnol pushed him aside, strode into the huge high-ceilinged entrance hall and demanded to see Colonel Lathrop. At that moment a man appeared on one of the galleries that ran around the upper floors of the hall.
‘What’s going on down there? Who’s that ruffian? Have him thrown out!’
Farnol looked up and recognized the man on the gallery. Oh God, he thought, not him! But he bounded up the wide stairs, came out on to the gallery and advanced on Major Rupert Savanna, who was slapping his pockets as if looking for a gun.
‘Savanna, old chap, how are you? I know you think I’m a ruffian, but you don’t have to spread it around amongst the servants. Where’s Lathrop?’
Savanna was an unfortunate man. He was plain to the point of anonymity; he would have been more identifiable had he been ugly. Everyone tended to overlook him and so he had made himself more unfortunate: he had become aggressive to be recognized and only succeeded in antagonizing everyone he met. He hated India and everyone on the whole sub-continent; but he knew that if he went back to England he would be even more anonymous and overlooked. He was hard-working, a rare quality amongst the British officers in India, and his diligence, if nothing else, had raised him to a senior staff position in the Political Service, the diplomatic corps of the Viceroy. It was said that he had been promoted on the assumption that a man so disliked would not have any friends to whom he might leak a confidence.
‘Farnol? Good God, man, do you have to come up here looking like that? Couldn’t you have spruced yourself up?’
‘I’ll do that later. Where am I staying – down at Squire’s Hall?’
‘Afraid not – the painters are in there. You’ll have to stay here.’ Savanna looked as if he were offering a pi-dog a room for the night. ‘We’re all staying here. Got permission from His Excellency, just for the two nights. The Durbar Train leaves tomorrow. I presume you’ll be coming down to Delhi?’
‘Of course. Where’s George?’
‘Afraid he’s not here. Went back to Delhi yesterday, got tired of waiting for you. You were due here a week ago.’
‘Blast!’ Farnol leaned against the balustrade, restrained himself from spitting down into the well of the entrance hall. He looked sideways at the portly little man with the very pale blue eyes and the blank face behind the ginger moustache. ‘I was held up by a landslide the other side of the Satluj, I had to make a detour. I was ambushed, too.’
‘I say! Lose any bearers?’ Savanna dreamed of being a hero but was glad he was a desk-wallah. Dreams were safer than deeds and he feared the day when he would have to act. ‘Better put that in your report to me.’
‘To you?’
Savanna flushed. ‘Of course. I’m your superior officer, am I not? George Lathrop asked me to stay on here and bring your report down with me when I go.’
‘What I have to report will need to get to him quicker than that. I’ll encode it and you can put it on the telegraph line to him tonight.’
‘I shall want to know what’s in the report before you encode it. I can’t authorize its despatch if I don’t know what’s in it.’
Farnol