The Maharajah's General (23 page)

‘He stands right there! As bold as brass!’ Fenris’ anger made him quiver with indignation, his finger pointing directly at where Jack stood in silence.

The Maharajah turned the force of his attention on the young lieutenant. ‘That man is my trusted general. You are mistaken, Lieutenant Fenris.’ There was naked venom in his voice now, and Proudfoot stepped forward, placing himself between his errant subaltern and the ruler.

‘Very well, sire. As you will. But I would beg you to enquire after the young girl. We believe this insidious man had inveigled her into his evil scheme. She should be returned to her father. I would hope you would understand that.’

For the first time the Maharajah seemed to accept the political officer’s words. ‘I shall see that the lady in question is asked for her opinion on the matter. Should the situation arise.’

Lieutenant Fenris opened his mouth to object, but Proudfoot pre-empted another outburst by placing a warning hand on the officer’s arm. ‘Thank you, sire. We can ask for nothing more.’

Jack had stood mute throughout the exchange. It would have been easy to remain silent, safe in the knowledge that the Maharajah was protecting him. But he could not stand back and say nothing. He would not hide.

He stepped forward, his spine tingling with discomfort as every eye turned towards him.

‘Proudfoot.’

The major looked surprised that Jack had chosen to speak. He quickly glanced in the Maharajah’s direction, checking for any sign of intervention. Seeing that none was forthcoming, he turned and faced his fellow countryman, lifting his chin in a supercilious gesture of disdain.

‘I have nothing to say to a traitor.’

‘I am no damned traitor.’ Jack felt his emotions surge through him. He had not imagined how difficult it would be to speak to the British officer, to face his own side whilst wearing the uniform of another.

‘I can call you nothing else. You should do the decent thing and turn yourself in, and allow Miss Youngsummers to be returned to the care of her father. It is the only chance you have of avoiding the noose.’

‘I’m to be hanged?’ Jack did not sound surprised. He had always known the penalty for this charade.

‘It’s what you deserve, you damned villain.’ Fenris hissed the words, his anger naked.

‘You should quieten your lapdog, Proudfoot. Before he bites off more than he can chew.’

Fenris stiffened, but Proudfoot once again placed a warning hand on his arm, silencing the furious younger officer.

‘Did you have something you wanted to say?’ Proudfoot was urbane in the face of his subaltern’s righteous anger.

‘You should tell Reverend Youngsummers that his daughter is safe and well. I would not want him to be unduly worried.’

‘How magnanimous of you.’ Proudfoot’s sarcasm was obvious. He turned as if about to leave before pausing, struck by a sudden thought. ‘You know, it really is a pity I had not known of your true abilities when we first met. I would have found a use for a man of your resourcefulness.’ He shook his head, clearly disappointed by the missed opportunity. ‘Would you allow me to know your real name?’ He asked the question with what appeared to be genuine interest. ‘I should like to be able to address you properly.’

‘Lark. My name is Jack Lark.’ For a moment Jack was tempted to offer his hand, but he held back, still unsure of Proudfoot’s motives.

But Proudfoot simply nodded. ‘Lark. A good name for a man who commits his life to such wild escapades.’ He looked up and gave Jack a mocking half-smile. ‘Well met, Jack Lark.’ Then he turned on his heel, ushering the still enraged Lieutenant Fenris out with him.

Jack watched him go. To his surprise, he felt a strong sense of regret.

‘You must accept, Your Highness. To do anything else would be folly.’ Count Piotr sat ramrod straight in his chair and offered his opinion in the flat, dry tone of someone who regarded any other course of action as simple madness.

‘I shall never accept. Never!’ The Maharajah slammed his fist down on to the thick mahogany table that had been painted a brilliant shade of white.

The count was unfazed at the display of temper. He sat back in his chair on the other side of the round table and stroked his thin moustache. ‘You cannot fight them.’

‘Why not?’ The Maharajah leapt to his feet and stalked around the room. The small, intimate chamber was decorated with wooden panels painted dark crimson that stood in stark contrast to the plain marble floor and crisp white ceiling. Unlike so many of the rooms in the palace, there was little else in the way of decoration. The plain, workmanlike feeling was echoed in the placement of the many console tables around the room, their highly polished surfaces covered with paper, inkwells, quills and blotters.

But there was no clerk present that day to record what was said. The Maharajah had summoned his closest advisers to discuss the news delivered by Major Proudfoot, and their words were to remain closely guarded, known only to the participants in the secret durbar.

For they talked of war, the modest room bearing witness to a discussion that would decide the fate of a nation.

Jack watched closely as the Maharajah stalked around the chamber. With no strangers present, he was able to give vent to his feelings; it was a miracle that he had been able to contain the full force of his rage during the audience with the British officials.

Jack had seen the ruler of Sawadh many times before today. He had enjoyed their conversations but they had often been inconsequential, jokey affairs, the Maharajah revealing nothing of his opinions or his aspirations for his domain. For all his grandiose titles and fabulous uniforms, Jack was still the outsider, still the firangi. He had not forgotten Count Piotr’s warning and he had done his best to remain wary, to not become too comfortable or complacent in his new life. Now, for the first time, he had been summoned to join the Maharajah’s inner circle of advisers, his council of war. He did not know what role he would be expected to take, so he guarded his emotions, keeping his face neutral as he waited to discover if he would be asked for advice or whether he was there to offer information.

He recognised only three of the other men summoned to join the intimate council. One was Count Piotr, who had surprised everyone by being the first to offer the one piece of advice that was sure to set the touchpaper to the Maharajah’s temper.

On the far side of the table sat the vizier, the man who had been so keen to see Jack executed when he had first arrived at the fortress. It was he who was next to speak, the rotund official beginning a long, passionless speech in his own language. To his left sat two other dark-faced advisers, who both nodded enthusiastically at the course of action that was being suggested by their colleague. The three men were clearly used to each other and they formed a cohort that would offer a single opinion even if it were delivered from three separate mouths.

It was obviously a forceful argument, and the pace of the Maharajah’s angry tread slowed as he contemplated what was being said. Jack sincerely hoped that the vizier was advising the Maharajah to not contemplate open rebellion against the British; he knew that this would place him fully in the role of traitor. Yet it was not solely through a notion of self-preservation that he so desired the Maharajah to find a peaceful solution to Proudfoot’s plans for his dynasty. For Jack was certain that if the Maharajah decided to fight the British, he was doomed to defeat.

Count Piotr spoke again. ‘If you fight, sire, you will die, and your ambition, and your dynasty, will be so much dust.’

Jack envied his calm manner. It was a bold man who addressed a king so. He was intrigued to hear that the Polish count’s opinion matched his own; glad that he was not the only one who saw the certainty of defeat.

‘Why? Explain to me why I cannot defeat the British. My army is bigger than theirs. We have more horsemen and many more foot.’ The Maharajah came to a stop next to the count, leaning forward to take his weight on his arms as he sought the answer to his earnest question. ‘Why must I stay my hand when I could defeat these fools with ease?’

‘Because the British do not understand defeat,’ the count replied quietly. ‘They refuse to be beaten. No matter how many times you fight them, they will always return, and each time they will be stronger. You can win a battle, maybe two. You cannot win a war.’

But the Maharajah did not agree. ‘They will understand defeat soon enough. I will destroy them and their stupid little town. I will show them what happens when they treat the Maharajah of Sawadh with such disdain.’

‘Then you would be a fool.’ The count snapped the reply. The quiet room fell into deathly silence as one of their number dared to confront the passionate ruler. The only man who seemed unconcerned was the count himself, and he leant forward, taking firm hold of one of the Maharajah’s forearms. ‘If you fight them, you will bring down a retribution such as you cannot begin to contemplate. The British cannot allow you to strike at them for fear of the example it would set. Even if you win and destroy their station at Bhundapur, they will come at you with such power that you will be lucky if a single man in your army is left alive.’

Jack watched the faces around the room. The two dark-faced advisers were animated, their loud voices denying the Polish cavalryman’s words. The vizier sat in silence, his eyes lifted to the heavens, as if he summoned divine intervention. Yet his expression remained guarded, and Jack got the sense that behind his calm facade his mind raced in calculation.

‘We can call on at least a thousand cavalry and more than double that number of foot soldiers.’ A grey-haired man who had so far remained silent consulted a piece of parchment on the table in front of him. ‘The British have fewer than one hundred of their own men and around three hundred native soldiers, a squadron of cavalry and no cannon. I see no reason why we should be afraid of that force.’ There was no judgement in his voice, merely the matter-of-fact tone of a man seeking orders. He was dressed in the same blue and red uniform that Jack had seen on the guards who had first granted him access to the palace, and the Maharajah listened intently as he spoke.

‘That is but a fraction of their forces.’ The count’s respectful manner made it clear that he too valued the older man’s opinion. ‘Destroy those and more will come. They will bring cavalry and cannon. They will reduce this place to so much rubble. It has happened before and it will happen again. There is no hope of resistance.’

‘We could call on our allies. Nathe Khan or the Maharajah of Orchha could double the size of our army if we so wished.’ The old man looked at the Maharajah as he spoke, presenting the option with no hint of whether he agreed with it or not.

‘Those jackals.’ The Maharajah did not bother to hide his own opinion. ‘They would only join us if they thought they would be able to pick over our carcass. I will not ask for help.’ His voice betrayed his pride.

The old officer nodded, the first sign of his own feelings revealed. ‘Your army will fight if you command us, Your Highness. I do not doubt we would succeed against this man Proudfoot and his troops.’ He looked across at the count. ‘But I cannot say if we can defeat this white-faced horde that Count Piotr describes.’

‘We must fight.’ The final voice in the room spoke. It belonged to the third man that Jack had recognised. Prince Abhishek joined the conversation for the first time, his young face flushed with passion. ‘We cannot accede to this demand. My ancestors fought for this land. They took it by being strong and they kept it by being stronger. We cannot sit back like women and let these British just take it all away.’

The Maharajah smiled with pride. ‘You speak from your heart, my son. It does you credit.’ He turned and looked around the room, resting his unsettling gaze for a moment on every face. He came to Jack. ‘General Lark. You have been uncharacteristically quiet. What is your opinion?’

Jack felt a lump form in his throat as the Maharajah’s attention fell upon him. There was nowhere to hide in the small room. He was an impostor, yet now he was being asked to advise on the fate of a nation.

‘The count is correct.’ He had to clear his throat as he began to speak. ‘You cannot defeat us. The men at Bhundapur are well trained and well armed. If you attack, then they will stand and they will fight harder than you can believe is possible.’ Jack’s confidence grew as he began to string his sentences together. ‘I do not believe you will succeed in destroying the station at Bhundapur. I think you will commit many men to certain death if you try. When you are defeated, the British will annex your land and rule here in your place. There will be no place for your son, and you will both be hunted down like dogs until you are brought to heel or killed in the process. The count is right. To fight us is folly.’

The Maharajah’s son rose to his feet, indignation clear on his young face. ‘This man knows nothing. He is a charlatan. A trickster. He says these things to frighten us. To save his countrymen from facing death at our hands.’ He pointed a finger at Jack as he spoke. ‘We should not listen to his false words.’

‘I hear you, my son.’ The Maharajah smiled warmly at Abhishek’s passion. ‘Now sit and calm yourself.’ He turned back to Jack. Once again every set of eyes fell on him. ‘Why?’ The question was simple, and asked in the voice of a man searching for understanding. ‘Why can you British not just leave us alone?’

For the first time Jack heard the pain in the Maharajah’s voice, and he felt a prick of shame. ‘I do not know. Your son is correct. I’m an impostor. I’m not a politician.’

The Maharajah seemed disappointed by the meek answer. He pulled back from the table and began to once again pace around the room. The men left at the table sat in silence, each contemplating their own thoughts, none willing to look at another as they waited.

‘My father faced this same question when I was but a small boy.’ The Maharajah began to speak as he paced, circling around the table, fixing each man with his firm gaze as he walked opposite their place. ‘He signed the treaty with the British because he believed he could not stand against their power, just as many others did. Yet my father was old then. He had lost the fire in his belly. Now the British are back and they want more. They want me to hand over the lands of my forefathers to them.’

He stopped his pacing, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the table to where Jack sat. Jack looked up into the fierce gaze and saw the anger in the Maharajah’s eyes. The indignation of a man faced with injustice. The fury of a ruler about to send his country to war. ‘The British want me to do as I am told. To go quietly and to accept the fate they have chosen for me. How little do they know me.’

The Maharajah paused. For a moment his head hung, as if the discussion had exhausted him, the enormity of the decision he faced physically weighing him down. Then he looked up.

‘I shall not go meekly.’ He stared at Jack, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘I shall fight for my kingdom. I shall make the British regret their decision. If nothing else, I shall live what time is left to me in honour.’

Jack met the uncompromising gaze. ‘You are wrong. There is no honour in sending men to their deaths. There is just pain and suffering.’

The Maharajah coloured. ‘Perhaps death is better than living in shame.’

‘Perhaps, for you. But your men do not have that choice. You will send them to their deaths for what? For your honour? For glory? For it is they who will suffer. It is they who will die.’ Jack felt his own temper rising. He had known what it was to be ordered into battle. He had known what it was like to be a pawn in the game of war.

‘The men will fight for their king willingly.’ The old officer spoke for his troops.

‘They would die for their king!’ Prince Abhishek was more forceful, his face flushed crimson with his righteous anger as he leapt to his feet, his temper forcing him into motion.

Jack refused to be cowed. ‘They will fight because you order it. Do not be so quick to condemn men to death. Their lives mean more than that.’

‘You speak well, General Lark.’ The Maharajah waved Abhishek back into his seat. ‘You are right to question these things. But my son is correct. My country would rather die than become another vassal of your Queen. You are still a stranger here, no matter what the colour of your uniform. You do not understand us. You British, you look at us and see our ignorance. You look down your noses and see squalor, hear laws that do not make sense. But you do not see our souls. You do not see the lives that have been lived here for centuries. Oh, I am sure you wish to improve us. You are certain that your roads and your universities and schools and even your great white God will improve our lives. But I tell you this. We do not want your improvements. We do not want your hands in our lives. We will live as we have chosen or we would rather die.’