0 comments/ 46839 views/ 10 favorites King of a Distant Country Ch. 01-03 By: smilodonwriter London must be the most miserable place on God's Earth on a wet day in January. There were five of us in the Library of The Exiles Club that afternoon. The New Year of 1887 was but a few days old and I had I come to Town from my customary refuge in Cheltenham to meet with my broker and take care of one or two other small items of business. After thirty years in India, the damp always seemed to penetrate my old bones and I was mightily glad of the cheerful fire blazing in the hearth. Perkins, the Club scout, served postprandial burra pegs and retired, leaving our little company to sit a while and indulge in the sort of reminiscence that is such a comfort to old soldiers. As usually happens on such occasions, the talk was desultory at first. Apart from Carstairs, who also resides in Cheltenham, I had not seen any of them for a couple of years and we swapped our limited amounts of news; mostly concerning those of our acquaintance who were no longer with us. I was saddened to learn of Johnny Hulme's passing, he was a capital fellow. Sadly, the malaria got him in the end, it seems. Talk then turned to the continuing troubles on the North West Frontier and our permanent inability to reach a solution with the Pathans. We reached a consensus that Afghanistan was best left to its own devices except for the fact that the bloody Russians were always interfering where they were not wanted. It really is the most frightful country to fight in and has nothing of any value to the Empire that we could ever see. The only times the local tribesmen ceased from their slaughtering of each other was when they banded together to slaughter us. And Kabul is a most pestilential hole and no place at all for a white man. I think it was Bradshaw who raised the subject, or it might have been Hadley. They both knew of it and told the story by turns so it is difficult to recall precisely who first mentioned the strange tale of Harry Danvers-Reid. I have to confess that I hardly knew the man. I think I met him once when we were all in Lucknow for cold weather manoeuvres, but it might have been Barrackpore. He made something of a name for himself as a young subaltern during the Sepoy Mutiny, as I recall. He was with one of those irregular outfits, Skinner's or Hodson's Horse, that got renamed as Bengal Lancers when John Company was relieved of any military responsibility. I remember a slender fellow of a little above average height with dark hair and a long pointed nose. Of course, I could be confusing him with Williams-Pike, but that is really by-the-by. Anyway, it turns out that Danvers-Reid was the most singular cove indeed. It appears he went native in the most extreme manner possible. Now of course, it is well known, but largely passes unremarked in polite company, that a number of old Indian Army hands rather overstepped the mark when it came to embracing the local customs and way of life. I'm not just talking about the odd discreet liaison with a young bibi. Dash it all, a chap has needs and white women were not exactly thick on the ground in the Raj. Some of those native gals were damned attractive, too; and a lot less inhibited about matters physical then your average memsahib! I well remember one dusky little beauty… but that's another story entirely! Which is not to say I condone such behaviour, you understand. Private arrangements are one thing but it doesn't do at all to go the whole hog. I remember one of our young chaps losing his head entirely over some native gal. He proposed marriage! Can you imagine it? The Colonel sorted that one out damned quick, I can tell you. Chap found himself guarding palm trees on the Andaman Islands for the next few years, silly young beggar! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, young Danvers-Reid. I will tell the story just as I heard it even though I allow it is most unsuitable for some ears. Now some may of you may well recall the story of that unscrupulous rogue, James Brooke, the so-called White Rajah of Sarawak. I know it was much discussed out East years back and opinion was sharply divided as to whether the man was a hero or an out-and-out dastard. I was, and still am, most firmly in the latter camp. I don't care if the powers-that-be saw fit to reward the rapacious swine with a knighthood. The damn' man's family run the country to this day. He may have done good work eliminating the odd nest of Malay pirates but he made himself damn rich in the process. Forgive an old man's digression; it was Danvers-Reid we were speaking of. Sometime towards the end of '67, Harry Danvers-Reid found himself on the eastern frontier near Chittagong. His life, up to this point, was utterly blameless. He did his duty, obeyed his superiors and cared for his men. In short, he was everything a British Officer should be in the Army of India. Why he underwent such a radical change at this point in his life can only be a matter of conjecture. Perhaps his military career stalled somewhat after a promising start and, if the truth is told, he was simply bored. Maybe his sixteen years of campaigning against fractious tribesmen and recalcitrant Rajahs had taken their toll on him. Although he was only a year or two past thirty, he may have felt used-up and stale. I mention this simply to try and shed some light on subsequent events. Dash it all; it wasn't as if the man had displayed any symptoms of going Dhoolali like that chap, Simkins, who wandered into the Mess as naked as a jaybird, with his private parts painted blue and demanded a chota peg. I mean to say, we could see instantly that something was up with the fellow. If he'd been a horse, we'd have had him shot. No, everyone who knew Danvers-Reid at the time will swear to you he was perfectly normal and generally in high good humour. The Lancers were patrolling the border and things were generally pretty quiet. The monsoon had broken and the weather turned cooler and, apart from the usual dysentery, they were relatively free from disease. Word came in from one of the little independent hill kingdoms, by name of Nambhustan, that there was a large band of dacoits terrorising the area. The local Nizzam beseeched the Commissioner for some British troops to see the blighters off and Danvers-Reid was sent with a half-troop to restore order. He was still a captain at the time; no one of field rank had obligingly succumbed to the cholera for a few years, so there were no vacant majorities, assuming he'd had the wherewithal to buy one, of course. Bradshaw, who was in the same regiment, said Danvers-Reid was quite bucked by the mission: a chance for some proper soldiering after the months of boredom. He set out with thirty or so lancers and a young cornet, whose name escapes me for the present. Now let me tell you that those native cavalry were damn' good at their job. The sowars were mostly Sikhs or Rajputs; big fierce chaps with fire in their bellies and they knew how to handle those pig-stickers they carried. Eight feet of steel-shod bamboo is not to be sneezed at, not in the hands of an expert. They headed up into the hills and spent the next few days patrolling and searching for any sign of the dacoits. They had a minor skirmish with a band of the swine up near Nambhupore, the capital, and put them to flight. That sort are very brave when faced with unarmed villagers but it's a wholly different story when it comes to a proper fight. They won't stand, sir, they won't stand. Clearly, young Harry had acquitted himself well enough and the Nizzam was suitably impressed. A lot of these minor Indian princes are not much to write home about, if I'm frank. Oh yes, there are a few that run things well but there are just as many that exploit their people horribly and are most abominably cruel. Can't say I know too much about Nambhustan but, by all accounts, the Nizzam was of the more enlightened sort. He rewarded Danvers-Reid with the usual bucket of rubies and the pick of his stables, so at least the beggar was properly grateful. That should have been the end of the matter, but it was not. For reasons best known to himself, Danvers-Reid accepted a position as chief of the Nambhustan Army and sent his papers in. The bloody fool didn't even bother to do it in person but handed a letter to the cornet to deliver to the Colonel on his return. The cornet duly brought it with him when the Lancers came back to the lines. That was the last anybody heard from Danvers-Reid for a while. A couple or three years later, the local Commissioner chanced to have cause to go up to Nambhupore. The old Nizzam was dead and Danvers-Reid was now King Harry I of Nambhustan. That little piece of news stopped the old boy in his tracks. He scuttled back to Chittagong and yelled blue murder. The Viceroy's staff shuffled their feet a bit and eventually decided they couldn't intervene. They dispatched a British officer – by chance my chum Hadley – to go and find out what the Dickens was going on. Dancers-Reid left him kicking his heels for a few days in the guest bungalow and then granted him a ‘Royal Audience.' Hadley was shocked to the core by what he found. Danvers-Reid had gone completely native. He was wearing some sort of local getup and a turban with a diamond the size of a goose egg. Apparently the chap was also surrounded by his harem of forty or so young, ahem, ‘ladies,' who were wearing pyjamas so thin that they might just as well have not bothered. The air reeked of hashish or bhang, as the locals call it and the whole scene reminded Hadley of the worst excesses of Gomorrah. Danvers-Reid refused to answer any of Hadley's questions and waved away all the latter's entreaties with an airy gesture. He invited Hadley to take his pick of the assembled women – as many as he liked – and laughed at Hadley's outrage at the suggestion. He would only say that Nambhustan would maintain friendly relations with the Raj but would brook no interference. He then bade Hadley ‘good day' and allowed that he might return in twelve months, if he was so minded. There were some grim-looking chaps dotted about with very large tulwars in their hands so Hadley decided on discretion and withdrew as graciously as possible in the circumstances. He duly reported back to the Viceroy and there was much sucking of teeth, I can tell you. The general consensus was that any European who gave himself utterly up to such excesses would not be long for this world and they could afford to wait and let nature take its course. Nobody wanted any damned scandal to reach the long ears of the yellow press. As luck would have it, Hadley wasn't able to return the following year, some small unpleasantness up near Peshwar detained him, so it was fully two years before he next visited Nambhustan and its self-styled King. He found Danvers-Reid physically little altered, maybe a little thicker about the waist, but it was the man's mental state that struck Hadley most forcibly. King Harry was far from the devil-may-care creature he had shown the world previously. Instead, he was morose, appeared distracted. When Hadley was finally granted an audience, Danvers-Reid was most uncivil and hectoring in his manner, demanding to know what business it was of Her Majesty's Viceroy what went on in the sovereign Kingdom of Nambhustan. Hadley was all emollient, soothing the savage breast as it were. He couldn't help noticing how the ‘King's' eyes kept flicking back and forth as though expecting an ambush at any second. He worked himself up into a towering rage and dismissed Hadley with the promise that any further incursions by British officers would be considered an act of war. Once more, Hadley retired peaceably, as per his instructions. His report opined that Danvers-Reid was definitely on the way out and that the problem should disappear entirely within a year or two. In the manner of civil service clerks, the viceregal administration decided to sit on their collective hands and let matters take their course. That was Hadley's last involvement in the story. Around the middle of July in '75, a messenger arrived at the residency in Calcutta. The fellow claimed to be an emissary from the Kingdom of Nambhustan and he bore all manner of official-looking documents requesting the Viceroy to take over the Kingdom following the recent death of its ruler. As it turned out, Bradshaw's regiment was chosen to escort the diplomats back to Nambhupore. Bradshaw was a half-colonel by this time and he decided to take command himself, such was his curiosity. By the time the clerks eased their fat backsides from the comfort of their armchairs and dragged themselves into the hills, the obloquies for the late monarch had been well and truly completed. By all accounts, the locals gave Danvers-Reid a rare send off and not a few of his ‘wives' indulged in the abominable practice of suttee, hurling themselves onto his blazing pyre. It was precisely to stop this sort of barbarism that the British took over the country, don't you know. Bradshaw confesses that he was a little disappointed to have missed out on the pageantry and there seemed to be little for the Lancers to do but stand about the place looking martial. Bradshaw admitted he was getting a bit bored by the whole thing when, one night, after he had retired to his bungalow, there came a tap upon his veranda door. Bradshaw prudently grabbed his revolver before opening the door, one can't be too careful in that part of the world, and was absolutely staggered to find one of the young bibis from the harem. I have to stress that Bradshaw is nothing if not a gentleman and he was quite loath to grant her admittance. She was most insistent and spoke passable English so he reluctantly allowed her to come in to his room. She told him that she was acting on the direct instructions of her late departed lord and handed him a leather bound volume. Strictly speaking, she had been told to give it to Hadley, but seeing as how Hadley was absent and Bradshaw was the senior officer present, she decided that he would fit the bill. Bradshaw duly thanked her and saw her off the premises and settled down to examine that which he'd been given in such a clandestine manner. The book's cover was fastened with a brass clasp and, on opening it, Bradshaw was dismayed to discover that the contents were written in some kind of code. There was also a short note in Danvers-Reid's hand, addressed to Hadley. I quote it here verbatim: My Dear Hadley, If you are reading this note, it is because I am dead. My health has been deteriorating markedly over recent months so I can be sure that it will not be too much longer. I feel I owe you an explanation. I treated you so abominably, old chap, that this will have to serve for an apology. I am entrusting to you my journal. You may do with it as you wish. Know only that, at the end, I remain, a loyal servant of Her Majesty. I have walked through the valley of the shadow, Hadley. Thankfully, I emerged at the other side in time to make my peace with God, if not my fellow man. It was signed, quite simply: H J K Danvers-Reid, Capt. Of course, we were all agog to know the contents of this journal but Bradshaw shook his head sadly. "I haven't been able to make head nor tail of it, chaps. Danvers-Reid devised his own code and it has me stumped." Then Wishart said that I was just the fellow for the task, seeing as how I'd been a little involved in the Great Game and knew about codes and ciphers and such things. I demurred, of course. All that happened when I was very young. The other chaps would have none of my denials and thus it transpired that I undertook to translate Danvers-Reid's testament. I suppose I accepted because it would give something to do. Cheltenham can be so damned boring, don't you know. We all agreed to meet again in twelve months' time. Bradshaw sent me the journal by parcel post and I set to work. I made very little headway at first. The script was unlike any military code with which I was familiar. Still, I persevered and after about two months, I finally spotted a pattern. That's what code-breaking is all about. One looks for patterns. If one can guess what a particular piece of the cipher means, one begins to have a key to the whole, as it were. Decryption is a long and repetitive task so I will not bore you with too many details. Suffice it to say that I noticed that each section of the journal began with a string of letters of varying length. I reasoned that a man keeping a journal might very well start each entry with the date. Once this thought took hold, I was able to further reason that the last four letters would refer to the year and the letters preceding this would be the month. Now, of all the months of the year, only May and September have an unique number of letters, three and nine respectively. Thus, if I could find a group of seven or thirteen letters, it was a fair bet that I had May186- or September 186-. My luck was in as I found an entry with thirteen letters quite early in the proceedings. After a lot more painstaking work I had the key to the following letters: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, J, L, M, N, O, P, R and T. Thereafter things proceeded apace and I was able to complete the translation just before Christmas, 1888 and present my findings to the chaps as we had agreed. It takes a great deal to shock a band of old India hands, I can assure you, but when I showed them the translation of Danvers-Reid's journal they were all aghast. I will not pass further comment but allow you, the reader, to discover the extent of the man's debauchery for yourself. I now reproduce the journal in its unexpurgated entirety, except where it becomes tedious or contains little of note. I have indicated such places in my own hand. I assure you that I have suppressed nothing and if you are offended by what you read, kindly remember, the words are not my own but those of a strange, tortured individual living far from his fellows. January 1868 I believe I have discovered a veritable paradise on earth. I sit, writing this first entry in this, the journal I have resolved to keep, in the luxury of my suite of rooms within the Nizzam's Palace of Nambhupore. Can it really be but a scant three months since that I first set foot in the strange and beautiful little Kingdom? For the sake of clarity, I suppose it best to describe the events that led up to my being here. Until December of last year, I was a Captain in the Xth Royal Bengal Lancers. (Editor's Note: I have removed the actual regimental number for the sake of those still serving in that excellent body.) As often happens in this part of the world, a band of Dacoits appeared out of nowhere and began terrorising the villagers. His Highness Mansoor Iqbal Khan, the ruler of this fair land, is an elderly gentleman of no great martial inclinations and thus he sought assistance from the British troops based around Chittagong. This is quite usual in such circumstances. I was thus detached with a half troop of Lancers to bring the matter to a speedy conclusion. This we did, with all due despatch if, in truth, there was only one engagement worthy of note near the small town of Willarua. We caught the murdering swine just after they attacked the town and my sowars did a fearful slaughter. These dacoits are not soldiers and lack discipline. A well-executed charge broke them and thereafter it was most like an afternoon's pig-sticking as the boys rode them down and took them on their points. An entirely satisfactory, if predictable, outcome. The old Nizzam was delighted to be rid of the intruders and presented me with a casket of rare rubies and a fine Arab stallion. Nor did he ignore the sowars, each of whom received one thousand rupees. The old boy was as generous as he was grateful. This left me with something of a dilemma. Standing Orders insist that any such gratuities are handed over to the crown for any amount in excess of fifty guineas. I'm no tradesman, but I estimate my rubies would fetch at least £5,000, sufficient to ensure a very comfortable retirement. In the ordinary way of things I'd not have been tempted, but news had come from home that my esteemed Pater had lost every last penny in an unwise investment in some very suspect bonds, leaving me, his son and heir, penniless. Of course, I could have kept quiet about the rubies and no one would have been any the wiser if weren't for that little prig, Jeavons, my troop cornet. There is not the slightest doubt that he would spill the beans to the Colonel the moment we got back. Jeavons has a singularly unfortunate manner with him, ignorant, prudish and rude; no doubt he'll go far. However, the Nizzam himself resolved my problem. He offered me the position of General Officer Commanding of the Army of Nambhustan. I accepted with alacrity and wrote out my resignation on the spot. I marked the envelope By Hand of Orifice – my small revenge upon the egregious Jeavons – and sent it back with the little swine when he returned with the troop. King of a Distant Country Ch. 01-03 Since that day, I have been living the life of Riley. Servants attend to my every need; my salary is a full lakh of silver rupees each year, which I remit to Messrs Cox's in Pall Mall through their agents in Calcutta. I have no doubt that in five years I shall be as rich as any Nabob to quit the shores of India. April 1868 I confess to having been somewhat remiss in my journal keeping these past months but life has been rather exciting of late. Indeed, today is the first recreation that I have taken since the beginning of the year. In order to explain precisely what I have been about, it is worth dwelling a little on the nature of this country. Nambhustan is relatively small by Indian standards. The capital city of Nambhupore lies almost at its heart, beside the great river. The ruling family are Musselmen while the greater part of the population are Hindoos and speak a dialect of Hindi. Much of the country borders the banks of the great river and the land is good and fertile. To the east of the country lies an area of dense jungle with small villages constantly facing a battle with the encroaching vegetation. Hills predominate in the northern marches and these lead up eventually to the great Himalayan range itself. It is from these hills that the wealth of the country, rubies of superb clarity and size, are mined. Of course, the ordinary people benefit but little from such riches but all are well-fed and seem content for the most part. Taxes are light and the village folk are largely undisturbed. The only exception to this regime of laissez-faire is the occasional selection of the most beautiful young virgins for the palace harem. The people grumble a bit but accept it as fact of life. Old Mansoor has three official wives but about six hundred concubines of various ages ranging from, I would hazard a guess, about fourteen to eighty. Unfortunately for him, the old boy has proved incapable of getting any of the nubiles with child. His heir and successor is an oily cove named Sikkander Khan, the son of a cousin or something. Sikkander is a suspicious type and we have developed a deep and mutual loathing. The local folk are not particularly war-like by inclination and the Army of Nambhustan would make a dog laugh. Only the Palace Guard, who were all mercenaries, were anything like soldiers. Small wonder that his nibs sent for the British when he had a spot of Dacoit trouble. Their weapons are antiques, ‘Brown Bess' muskets from the last century and some ancient bronze canon of local manufacture. There is one regiment of light horse but the mounts are spavined nags and the troopers would fall off if they had to swing a sabre and ride simultaneously. It was clear from a very early stage that I would have my work cut out to turn this rabble into any sort of effective force. I did have one piece of good fortune. I found an old naik, a native corporal of horse, among the Place Guard. His name is Ramnesh Lal and I put him in charge of training the cavalry. He has proved to be an able riding master and under his tutelage, the sowars are learning the basics. The foot soldiers are posing more of a problem. I have persuaded his nibs to purchase some of the 1853 pattern Enfield rifles used by British regiments but it will be a little while before they are here. In the meantime, we drill with the old muskets. They can't hit a barn door at twenty paces, but at least we can now produce a passable volley and can manage three shots in a minute on a good day. The artillery is completely hopeless with only some bullock-drawn bronze 24-pounders. Most of the balls are made of stone and the powder has stood too long without being stirred to be of any use. There is so much to do and so much to organise that I sometimes scarcely know where to begin. All must be accomplished in the Hindi tongue, for very few here have even the most rudimentary English. Palace life remains enjoyable, aside from the constant intrigue. I have been the recipient of more than one approach from this faction or that faction seeking to enlist me to their cause. At such times I am able to extricate myself without too much difficulty. The buggers try to be so cunning and talk so elliptically that it is not difficult to deliberately misunderstand them and this confuses them greatly. My one complaint is the casual cruelty that I encounter on a daily basis. Even his nibs is not above it. Just the other day, he decided to have one of his women punished for some minor infraction. The poor girl was dragged into the audience hall with all the court looking on agog. Two great fellows with massive muscles running slightly to fat then seized her. I later learned that these were two of the eunuchs assigned to guard the women. It is clear from these two specimens that taking a man's stones doesn't in any way reduce his capacity for cruelty and the enjoyment thereof. They ripped the gossamer-thin clothing from the poor young thing and she was paraded naked before the assembled company. She was certainly a sight to behold; a dainty little piece with coffee-coloured skin and lustrous black hair. She was shaved bald around her sex, as is customary with these concubines, and would have sought to cover herself had not those two villains kept a firm grip on her arms. It appeared the object of this particular exercise was to humiliate her utterly for the assembled courtiers were encouraged, nay, instructed, to fondle her most intimately, which they did with lascivious enthusiasm. After this ordeal was over, her hands were bound together in front of her and her conjoined wrists were then placed over a large metal hook that depended from the ceiling. She was then hoisted into the air until her feet dangled some four feet above the flagstones. The villainous eunuchs then prepared bamboo canes by splitting the ends for about the first foot of their length into half a dozen or so separate strips. They then began to caress her very lightly with the fronds, running them over her breasts and thighs and between her legs. The poor girl hung twisting slowly, tears streaming from her face and wearing a look of abject misery and terror. I found my eyes drawn to the scene in a way that, I confess, still shames me. I was riveted by a mixture of revulsion and prurience that is not becoming of a gentleman. Then, at a signal from the Nizzam, they began to whip her. Red wheals appeared upon that perfect flesh and she cried out in fear and pain. They were utterly careless of where their blows landed but they were obviously expert at their vocation for they never once broke the skin. The tips of the cane splayed where they struck her and soon her buttocks, thighs and belly were striped with the overlying evidence of their ministrations. There was a devilish cruelty to it because, at intervals, they would leave off their beating and repeat again those intimate caresses with which they commenced proceedings. I was both revolted and aroused by what I witnessed and had to force myself not to intervene. The punishment continued for at least a quarter of an hour, but if I am truthful, it appeared to me to be both much shorter and almost interminable. I hazard to say that it must have been an eternity for the poor unfortunate lass who was the object of these attentions. At length, the Nizzam grew bored by the spectacle and indicated to the eunuchs to cut her down. This was the signal for all manner of lewdness to begin. The courtiers began to fondle one another quite publicly. I took my leave in disgust and returned to my quarters. June 1868 Today I bagged my first tiger! Around two weeks past, a runner came from one of the villages to the east bearing news of a man-eater on the loose and requesting help from the Palace. The Nizzam sent for me and, pleading his advancing years else he would see to the matter himself, ordered me to repair to the stricken district and bring an end to the beast's depredations. I took with me a small escort and my own syce and a couple of the recently arrived Enfield rifles. I was devilish excited by the prospect, I can tell you. I've hunted deer and wildfowl out here but this was my first crack at a tiger. We arrived at the village after two days' hard riding and were welcomed like Gods. The village headman told us that the man-eater was only recently come to the area but they had heard on the jungle grapevine that a village some forty miles to the north had been suffering previously. All in all, the beast appears to have accounted for about thirty locals, mostly women and young herd-boys. It had acquired the habit of staking out the riverbank where the women drew water and undertook their laundering and where the boys brought the cattle to drink. Given the availability of a spot of beef on the menu, I expressed surprise that the tiger appeared to prefer to eat human flesh. The old boy informed me that once a tiger turns man-eater, no other meal would serve. This presented me with something of a problem as, if this intelligence was to be believed, the old monster would turn his striped nose up at the goat I originally planned to use as bait. The headman was prepared for this eventuality and he offered me a human lure. I didn't quite grasp the point at first. I rather assumed that some brave chap was going to loiter about the riverbank while I waited in cover to take my pot shot. Not so! The old buzzard had something entirely different in mind. What he was proposing was that I employ the services of a young orphan girl of low caste who happened to be scavenging a meagre existence in the village. I was horrified at first but my syce assured me that it could actually be a kindness, as the wretched brat would undoubtedly succumb to either starvation or disease in short order. The Hindoo caste system is completely rigid and no one would lift a finger to assist the child, being, as she was, an ‘untouchable.' The poor unfortunate was dragged before the assembled company and told of her fate. I was mightily impressed. She took the news impassively, a look of something like contempt on her face. She was filthy, dressed in rags and her hair was a matted tangle. There was ample evidence of beatings and abuse on the exposed parts of her body but for all that she possessed a quiet sort of dignity. I took her to one side and reassured her that I would do my utmost to get the tiger before it got her but she simply shrugged as if it was entirely of no consequence. I did insist, however, that the villagers feed her and give her something a little more salubrious to wear. They grudgingly agreed but would not approach her directly, bestowing their meagre gifts on me to pass on to her instead. I had the devil's own job in getting her to speak to me. At length, I learned her name was Baljit and that she came originally from a village around three days' walk away. Her parents had died some months ago and her own village had driven her out as she was deemed to possess the ‘evil eye.' As far as I could judge she was about eleven or twelve years old but it was difficult to say under the grime, coupled with the fact that she was so malnourished. I was of a mind to have her clean herself up a bit but then considered that the more pungent her aroma, the more attractive she would be to the tiger. Most of the previous attacks had been around sunset or dawn. This was entirely logical as the villagers would all be indoors at night and fires were kept burning to keep the beasts of the jungle away. I decided that we go for the kill at sunset the following day and about two hours before dusk, I made my way with Baljit and my syce down to the river. I selected a sturdy tree with an unobstructed view and shinned up into its lower branches. My syce passed me up the two loaded Enfields and I settled down to watch and wait. The headman had been all for tethering our human ‘goat' but I would not have it. Baljit was very calm and seemed disinterested in the whole affair. She sat down beside the river and began to weave – a basket or somesuch – from the rushes that grew nearby. We waited all night and well into the early morning but our tiger never showed. Perhaps the beast was simply not hungry that evening. We resolved to try again last night. Nothing happened at sunset and I spent another long uncomfortable vigil all through the hours of darkness. About half an hour after the first grey shading of dawn, I suddenly saw Baljit stiffen. I was on the point of giving it best yet again when I saw her head come up in alarm. Such was her stoicism, however, that she made no move to flee but sat, rigid and alert, awaiting her fate and trusting to her Gods and my marksmanship. Now, sitting in a tree for several hours is not the ideal preparation for good shooting. Nevertheless, I eased my cramped limbs as best I could without giving away my position, checked the position of the percussion cap on the Enfield and waited. I became aware that a total silence had fallen. All the usual bird and animal noises that are ever-present in the jungle died away. It was then I saw a slight rustling among the reeds and thought I could just discern a faint shape moving through the dense greenery. I sighted along the barrel of my first Enfield and waited, hardly daring to breathe. All was still; Baljit sat like a pillar, the rustling in the reeds ceased. I was almost prepared to believe I imagined it. Apart from the unnatural silence, all seemed completely normal. I counted off the minutes in my head while Baljit remained totally motionless throughout. Again I was forced to admire the youngster's pluck. There cannot be many who would sit so still under the threat of an imminent attack by a tiger. The attack, when it came, was awesomely sudden. The reeds parted and a striped projectile hurtled towards the motionless girl. It took me completely by surprise and I almost froze, fascinated by the speed and power of the charging predator. Fortunately for all concerned, years of military training came to my aid and I gently took up the first pressure on the rifle's trigger. On and on came the tiger and still Baljit did not move but faced the beast with head held high. If this was truly her Nemesis, then she would meet it with the same detached calm as she displayed to the vilification handed out by the villagers. I saw my shot, squeezed the trigger and felt the thump of the heavy stock against my shoulder. Powder smoke obscured my vision but I seized up the second Enfield and waited for the fog to disperse. Moments later I could see Baljit still sitting in the same spot. The tiger was down on its belly but still crawling towards her. Pink froth flecked its muzzle, a clear sign of a lung shot – fatal, but not immediately so. I leapt from the tree and sprang between Baljit and the wounded killer. It came on inexorably. I held my fire until the barrel was almost touching that fearful mask, then pulled the trigger. The heavy calibre bullet smashed into the monster's skull and it collapsed instantly. I regret that shot now as it ruined the head and the fur of the face was much burned by the muzzle-flash thus somewhat spoiling it as a trophy. Baljit at last displayed her emotions and fell at my feet, clasping her arms about my legs and weeping with gratitude. (Editor's Note: The blackguard seems unaware of the irony of this passage. It was, after all, he who had exposed the unfortunate child to this horror in the first place.) We returned to the village and this was the sign for much rejoicing. Some of the men went down to fetch the carcass and proceeded to skin it. I shall have it cured. Although it is not of the best quality, owing to the powder burns, it is my first tiger. Tonight we will have another feast of celebration and I return to the Palace tomorrow. I have resolved to take the stalwart Baljit with me. Doubtless I will able to secure a menial position for her but any improvement in her lot in life is surely to be welcomed. July 1868 I now detect a certain irony in the last line of my previous entry. On my return to the Palace at the end of last month, I was not exactly treated to ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes!' In fact, there was a distinct frostiness about my welcome for which I could not discern a sensible explanation. The Nizzam was civil enough but there was a distinct undertone to our exchanges. At first, he demanded the tiger skin for himself. He changed his mind once he saw the somewhat ravaged mask. It might also have been a factor that the skin was not yet cured and was distinctly ripe at this time. He volunteered his thanks but eschewed the customary reward of rubies, which is tantamount to an insult in these climes. I could make neither head nor tail of his attitude but resolved to have my syce keep his ear to the ground among the other native grooms and to convey to me any tittle-tattle that might be pertinent. I presented young Baljit, by now cleaned up and looking slightly less malnourished than of yore. This was a major faux pas. Word of our exploits had travelled ahead and the court all seemed to know that she was of the ‘untouchable' caste. There was also much muttering about her possession of the ‘evil eye,' which, of course, is utter damned nonsense but typical of the superstitious nature of your average Hindoo. I could find nobody who would take the wretched child on so was forced to accept her into my own employ. This presented me with some difficulty as I run a bachelor establishment and there was little that a young girl could do for me. Baljit was a grave and reserved child of above average intelligence and it was she who suggested the solution. It was clear that her caste would prevent any normal social intercourse with the rest of the servants. The rubbish about the ‘evil eye' was also germane, as it caused the others to avert their glances from her at all times and they refused to permit her a sleeping place among them. She displayed her considerable ingenuity in suggesting that I retain her services as my personal food-taster. Such is the intrigue and habituary practice of murder among the court that this appointment would be seen as only a sensible precaution and would raise few eyebrows as the incumbent was of low caste and therefore expendable. I was not entirely comfortable with the suggestion but, as it came from her and seemed an acceptable solution, I agreed. I must say that she is most assiduous in the performance of her self-selected duties and have the sneaking suspicion that her enthusiasm has been informed by her past experiences of being constantly hungry. Now I have only to get the bottom of the meaning of my cool reception. September 1868 I was awoken this morning by my syce; the clumsy beggar cut while me while undertaking my morning shave. He was most distressed by this but excused himself by saying that his hands had been shaking as the result of momentous intelligence discovered last night. It seems that that beggar, Sikkander Khan, has been stirring things up and is jealous of my popularity among the common sort. I appear to enjoy some sort of God-like status with the villagers and townsfolk. This stems originally from driving off the Dacoits but word has spread of the episode with the man-eater and, particularly among the ‘untouchable' caste, I am regarded as a great champion. The upshot is that Sikkander has been pouring poison into the Nizzam's ear with claims that I plan to usurp him. In truth, this is young Sikkander's plan and all but those closest to the throne are aware of it. Rumour has it that he will not wait for the old boy to pop off naturally but will seek to hasten his demise. I certainly wouldn't place such a course beyond the oily bastard's compass. It appears that he hopes to rid himself of me so that he may suborn the army. At present, the troops are all utterly loyal but I will have to watch my back. I now eat nothing that is not prepared in my own kitchens. Baljit still insists on tasting everything nonetheless and, as a consequence, is filling out quite nicely. As far as we can establish, she is about thirteen years old and displays all the signs of emerging womanhood. Now that she is clean and properly dressed, she is really a pretty little thing. Her skin is darker than most of the Palace women, who range in shade from cream to coffee. Baljit, by contrast, is of a dark chocolate hue. I will confess I find it most becoming. Now that she has some flesh upon her bones, it is clear that she will become most voluptuous in a year or two. She has that certain type of build which shows good breadth of hip while retaining a tiny waist. I have seen other such women here, and most combine these features with large rounded bosoms. This physical type is highly prized. There is a natural arch to her eyebrows that others achieve only by artifice and her lashes are thick and long and have no need of darkening with kohl. It is devilish tricky doing without female companionship. King of a Distant Country Ch. 01-03 The weather is most trying at present as we await the breaking of the monsoon to relieve the oppressive humidity. It shouldn't be too long now as daily, we may observe the great thunderheads building up to the east but, as yet, they only threaten rather than deliver the promised downpour. These are certainly the dog days and one may readily see the effect such close conditions have on the temper of the populace; fuses have been cut very short indeed. Of the servants, only Baljit seems unaffected with her grave demeanour unchanged. The others spit and snarl like cats in a sack and take offence with one and other at the slightest of pretexts. I shall be heartily glad when the storm breaks. October 1868 One should be very careful what one what one wishes for as events may harbour consequences that were hitherto unforeseen. The monsoon broke very late and inundated the land. The great river, swollen by rain from the hills, burst its banks and the flooding is widespread still, although lately beginning to recede. It is hard to describe the appalling scenes of utter devastation. On the 13th inst, a typhoon swept in from the Bay of Bengal and wreaked much havoc among the poorer sort of housing. I mobilised the army on my own initiative to bring such relief as we may. His nibs seemed paralysed by the scale of the disaster and took to his boudoir with half a dozen of his youngest concubines and a couple of young boys, in case he fancied a change. I attempted to see him on several occasions as I wished his authority to distribute rice from the Royal granary. Needless to say he refused to countenance an audience so I took it upon myself to press on regardless. I don't know what he will make of that! As usual with such disasters, those who have the least lose most. The suffering among the poorer sort almost beggars belief. I greatly fear we shall have terrible pestilence once the floods have gone. The bloated carcasses of drowned livestock dot the watery landscape like so many half-tide rocks. Of human dead there are many hundreds, perhaps thousands. Entire villages have been swept away in the floodwaters and more survive in name only. The little native huts of woven palm fronds are flimsy structures at the best of times. In the teeth of a storm, they simply blow apart. The good thing is they are readily constructed so replacing shelter for the people will pose no difficulty. The recent rice harvest was ruined or completely destroyed but my biggest concern is to secure a supply of potable water. The villagers rely on the great river for their sustenance in this regard but that is now swollen and filthy with all manner of detritus borne along by the flood. Typhoid fever is almost certain to follow. My syce lost his family in the disaster and the wretched man is beside himself, near hysterical with grief. Only Baljit has remained her usual stoic self and accepts disaster as the natural lot of the poor. She truly cannot understand my concern. Perhaps her own experiences have left her inured to the fate of her fellows. My troops have performed splendidly in trying circumstances. There has not been much that they can achieve in all honesty, as the disaster is so vast. We have begun the gruesome task of recovering the dead and seeing them decently disposed of on mass pyres. Fortunately, there is no shortage of kindling although it needs liberal amounts of palm oil or ghee to get the fires started. We have also begun to organise the survivors and get them started on the rebuilding process. This has also enabled us to distribute the Nizzam's rice. Sikkander Khan has been conspicuous by his absence. Editor's Note: At this point there is a long gap in the entries. On a couple of occasions a date has been entered and a few terse lines only appear. These detail things like troop strength or appear to be aides memoirs, reminding Danvers-Reid to "Check powder quality in Number 4 magazine" and the like. It also appears that the feared pestilence did, in fact, take hold and Danvers-Reid was kept busy organising burial details and other such grisly tasks. The next major entry appears some eight months later. May 1869 Matters are come to a head with the egregious Sikkander Khan. I have been aware of the threat the man poses for these past months but I little suspected that he would find the courage to attempt a coup. He has attracted to him a band of disaffected minor nobles and similar rats and they have occupied the town of Dimburrah, centre for the ruby mines. Poor old Mansoor is in rare panic and demands, in semi-coherent bellows from behind his bedroom door, that I march immediately and toss the scoundrels out. This will be damned ticklish as Sikkander has put together a ragbag army of dacoits, mercenaries and low-life adventurers numbering in excess of five thousand. The town itself is unknown to me but I'm reliably informed it sits on a steep bluff above a ravine and there is but a single direct approach, by way of the trunk road. One of my subadars is from that area and he has furnished me with sketch maps. It looks certain that the place cannot be taken easily if resolutely defended and accordingly, I have purchased half a dozen old six-pounder galloper guns. It would not be worth the effort of dragging the ancient bronze pieces up there by elephant even though it would be sheer madness to attempt an assault without some form of artillery. I will own to being somewhat apprehensive, as this will be the first blooding of my soldiers. The cavalry are steady enough; I promoted Ramnesh Lal to Daffadar-Major and the sowars will ride through hell for him. I'm somewhat less sanguine about the foot. Some of the sepoys are displaying a pronounced reluctance and every symptom of being gun-shy. We shall see. My other problem is Baljit. She insists on accompanying me and will not take ‘no' for an answer. It matters not one jot that I proclaim campaigning is no occupation for a woman – particularly one of her tender years. Neither can she ride, although, in truth, that is no obstacle of itself as she could travel with the baggage train. By our guess, she is about fourteen now and would be married if she were back in her native village. I will have to try and find her husband from among her own caste, although this nonsense with the ‘evil eye' will make that tricky. The galloper guns should be arriving at the end of the month and we will set forth immediately they are to hand. In the meantime, I am moving the army out of the city and we will camp by the ghats a little to the north. I am hopeful that this quarantine will prevent any attempts to disaffect the soldiers. The ghats are where the local funerals take place and are considered a place of ill-omen so we should not be overly disturbed. Someone has already started that silly damn rumour that the Enfield cartridges are greased with pork and beef fat – in truth it is mineral oil. That was the story the damned Pandies put about in the mutiny and we all know where that led! I have banned any camp followers from accompanying us and am trying to use this rule to further dissuade Baljit. Her answer has been to acquire a uniform and she now goes about dressed in tight cavalry britches, a scarlet tunic and a sky-blue puggaree. I confess she looks most damnably appealing in this get-up. The Hindoo troopers still avoid her and Ramnesh Lal has cautioned me that her presence is disturbing some of the sepoys. I have told him to put it about that she is with us to put a curse on our enemies and he thinks this a good plan. June 1869 We took Dimburrah yesterday and I have spent today attempting to restore order. The fight was short and bloody. We blew the gates with the galloper guns and the infantry assaulted straight up the road. The first attack was beaten back with heavy loss but the second, under cover of the gallopers firing canister, gained a foothold and we broke in just after noon. As soon as we were in, the Dacoits who had rallied to Sikkander Khan deserted him, throwing down their ancient weapons and pleading for quarter. The mercenaries resisted long enough to satisfy their honour and then surrendered in good order. Most were ex-Company sepoys and had little appetite for the fight once they saw my troops were led by a European. That was when the mayhem started as the sepoys ran amuck, raping and looting at will. It was regrettable but inevitable that this would happen. Something about war takes the humanity out of a man. By common custom, if a city surrenders without a fight, it is spared this ordeal. If the city resists, albeit the citizens may have little say in the matter, then sack and rapine are considered justified. At least we do not have the added complication of drink with native troops. The Queen's infantry are ungovernable when fuelled by alcohol. I allowed the men their way last night and sent Ramnesh Lal with a full troop into the city this morning. The Lancers have been splendid and did not join in the plundering. I have assured the sowars that all will be rewarded with a bonus of five hundred rupees. There is also a reward of ten thousand rupees for the man that brings me Sikkander Khan, dead or alive. Baljit watched all that transpired with an impassive glare. She feels no sympathy for the townsfolk but was much affected when a ball struck one of the artillery horses. She wept when the beast had to be destroyed and demanded to know why we could not mend its shattered leg. There is still much of the child about her although her body bears very much a woman's form. Later I write this on the march back to Nambhupore. Sikkander is in chains and stumbles behind the gun carriage to which he has been secured. There were five others of the court taken with him and these will now face the Nizzam's justice. Dimburrah has been pacified and the mines are back in production. Unfortunately, about a third of the town was destroyed in the aftermath of the battle though I doubt this will concern his nibs. The troops are in rare high spirits and a rumour has started that our victory was down to Baljit's curse. They are still wary of her but a little more respectful. This whole ‘evil eye' thing is getting out of hand. Of course, anyone who spends any time out east will rapidly discover that the natives are a superstitious bunch but my concern is that they will turn on her in a trice if I am not there to protect her. I have enlisted some of the mercenaries to replace the casualties we took. Our butcher's bill was quite severe; one hundred and seventy three dead and almost six hundred wounded. We have three hundred prisoners and they make a sorry sight tramping along in the dust behind the bullock carts of the baggage train, wailing and weeping as they go. They fear the punishment that doubtless awaits them. One may be sure that it will be cruel in the extreme, as insurrection is the thing most feared by princes, be they black or white. One has only to recall the terrible revenge wreaked by our own people after the Mutiny. I would be the first to avow that the wretched Pandies brought it upon themselves with their massacres and treachery, but it is still unsettling to see a man blown apart at the mouth of a cannon. If you have never witnessed such a thing, be thankful, it haunts my dreams still. I cannot wait to be back in the city, not least so that Baljit may go decently attired once more. The sight of her pert young rump in those tight britches is most distracting. August 1869 It is hard to believe that two months have passed since the successful engagement at Dimburrah. The rebels were duly put to death. The Nizzam wished me to arrange the executions but I demurred. I'm a soldier not a damned hangman. The day of reckoning was like a carnival. I kept the troops in barracks and refused to attend. Watching a man trampled to death by elephants is not my favourite way of passing an afternoon. Sikkander Khan's fate has left something of a power vacuum at court. There is now no obvious heir to his nibs, who grows more frail with each passing day. This is a matter of some concern as the politicking and backstabbing gathers pace. There have been three ‘accidents' in the last month. Some of these minor dignitaries appear to lack a sense of balance when walking on high walls. At this rate, all eligible will be wiped out by the time the old boy quits this life. My reward for bringing matters to a successful conclusion was to be presented with a concubine! I was allowed my pick of the stable and chose a little Siamese maid. She is quite delightful and vastly inventive. I have to confess I havered a bit before accepting but I have been too long without that physical release that is important to a man. I call her Cat, for the mewing noises she makes when she nears her crisis. She has a refreshingly direct approach to the act of physical union and has initiated some practices that I find quite shocking, if devilishly arousing. She insists on wearing the gossamer pyjamas favoured in the seraglio – I believe she considers her ‘uniform' as an overt display of her status. Being the General-Sahib's woman appears to have given her much ‘face' among the others. I fear for the health of my syce. The poor man is crippled by a tumultuous erection of the male member whenever he is in her company. Baljit, on the other hand, is contemptuous of her and I find this surprising; Cat is a Buddhist and Baljit's low caste is a matter of supreme indifference to her. At least I have managed to get Baljit back into a sari and out of those tight britches. Baljit informed me the other day that Cat has the body of a boy and does not look like a proper woman at all. It is true that nature has not been bountiful to Cat in certain areas and the habit of removing all body hair lends further to the impression of youth. Cat has the body of a young girl although she assures me that she is four and twenty and has been these past ten years within the harem. She was presented to the Nizzam by a Burman prince. The Nizzam took her a couple of times but she did not become one of his favourites. She openly confesses to have taken her pleasures with the other women as she was denied the company of a man. She is undoubtedly possessed of strong appetites. The day I received her, she insisted on attending me at my bath. She removed her harem pyjamas so they would not get wet and sat beside me, knees akimbo, naked as the day she was born. This had the predictable effect upon my organ of generation or ‘lingam' as the locals call it. Seeing my distressed state, she clapped her hands in glee. When I rose from my ablutions, I was still much excited and she insisted on taking care of the problem forthwith. Cat believes that retaining the sexual essences for a prolonged period is detrimental to one's health. She indicated that I should sit in one of the large, straight-backed chairs. I did so, puzzled. She proceeded to straddle me with her back towards my chest and lowered her sexual parts until they were just touching tip of my erect member. Her yoni was like a little mouth, nibbling at the tip of my sex while she undulated her hips, never quite drawing me within, but content to tease me with her pronounced nether lips. After some several years of abstinence I was unequal to the challenge and felt my crisis approaching in moments. Cat sensed what was happening and, with exquisite timing, thrust herself down upon me as I climaxed, milking the seed from me with rhythmic contraction of her remarkable love muscles. I feared I cried out in the extremity of the moment, which appeared to delight her further. My enjoyment was only slightly soured by the furious glare that Baljit afforded the pair of us when we emerged from my chambers. I fear we offended the tender sensibilities of one so young. As a consequence, and not wishing to distress an impressionable young mind, I always inform Baljit on those nights when Cat is to visit me so that she may absent herself and not suffer the embarrassment of witnessing the audible results of my recreations. She accepted this arrangement with ill grace. I fear that I am diminished in her eyes because of my attachment to Cat. Baljit will sit and glare at the older woman when we take food together. She still insists on tasting everything I eat and I cannot dissuade from her chosen duty. September 1869 The atmosphere of disharmony in my household continues unabated. I have repeatedly questioned Baljit as to the reasons for her animosity towards Cat but she will not give an answer beyond a withering look that would strip the stucco off the walls. I have attempted to explain the child that a man of my years has certain needs and that Cat is satisfying them. She simply shrugs. I fear she thinks me a libertine. Cat tries to be pleasant to the girl but is constantly rebuffed. As a result, the pair contend for my attention in their different ways. My syce says that Baljit is jealous – the man's obviously a fool! Although, if I did not know better, I could almost believe the presence of the green-eyed monster does afflict her. One episode recently gave me pause to think that, perhaps, my over-stimulated servant is right for once. Two nights ago, we assembled, as usual, for the evening meal. Baljit arrived accoutred in a pair of the diaphanous pyjamas favoured by Cat and the other harem women. God alone knows how she came by them, but the effect was most disturbing. It was quite apparent that she is indeed rapidly becoming a young woman. Her breasts have grown quite large and her yoni is fleeced with a thin covering of maidenhair. I insisted that she remove herself and dress in a more becoming manner although, if I'm truthful, she was a very alluring sight. I have to remind myself that she is but a child still in a woman's body. She reacted badly and fled the room weeping, declaiming that the General-Sahib thought her ugly and worthless. Only her sense of duty made her return, but she would not linger after tasting each of the evening's dishes. I protested that I thought her a very pretty girl, but this did not assuage her injured feelings. Cat thinks that I should not have called her a girl for Baljit is desirous of being treated as a woman. That is as maybe, but I cannot rid myself of the memory of the skinny, filthy child who sat so still for the tiger. Cat continues to delight. Her appetite for the act of love is almost boundless and she will often use me to the point of exhaustion. She has certain tricks to revive my ardour long after I believe myself satiated. Last night, as I lay exhausted, she rolled me onto my stomach and began to massage my back and shoulders. Massage would appear to be a Siamese art. She manipulated my aching muscles and eased the knots from my spine with firm pressure. Then she began to sweep my skin with her hair, trailing the very tips of her tresses across my back and buttocks. It was both soothing and arousing at the same time. I became aware next that she had substituted the twin firm peaks of her small breasts and she proceeded to stroke herself lightly across my buttocks and thighs. She made a type of low purring noise in her throat as she moved, reinforcing further her feline qualities. Her finger then insinuated itself into my fundament. It was not entirely unpleasant but it took me by surprise and I yelped. She made a deep apology and then, to my surprise, I felt her breath upon my buttocks and her tongue slipped into that nether orifice. I was utterly stunned at the feeling this intrusion engendered. I felt had been struck by velvet lightning. All the strength ebbed from my body and I gasped with the intensity of the sensations, the like of which I have never felt. My life's essence seemed to drain from me and my entire being was concentrated in that tiny area with the rest floating free somewhere in the ether. I cannot say how long she continued these intimate ministrations. Her tongue probed deeper into me and began to flick back and forth. It was as though a lever was thrown inside me for, within seconds, my lingam was rampant once more when I would not credit such a thing was possible.