The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [279]
‘It will not come to a fight,’ snapped Ash. ‘He would not dare.’
‘Let us hope that you are right. But I would not care to wager on it. The princes of Rajputana may think it prudent to pay lip-service to the Raj, but they still wield great power within their own states, and even the Sahibs of the Political Department – as you have seen prefer to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to much that they do.’
Ash observed tartly that it was going to be difficult to turn a blind eye to this, or a deaf ear either, as he intended to raise a considerable noise about it. He proposed to write a full account to the Political Officer and have the letter sent off by special messenger that very afternoon.
‘That would be as well,’ agreed Mulraj. And added thoughtfully – ‘though I do not think your messenger will get through, for they have the roads well guarded. Moreover, my spies brought me a tale last night that I do not like: they say that the city and the forts can speak to each other without words.’
‘You mean by semaphore?’ inquired Ash, startled. ‘Can they, by jove. I wonder where the devil they learned that?’
‘You know of it, then? It is possible?’
‘Of course. It's quite simple. It's done with flags: you make signs with them and – Oh, it would take too long to explain. I'll show you one day.’
‘Ah, but this is not done with flags. This thing is done with the aid of small shields of polished silver that catch the light of the sun and flash warnings that can be seen from many miles away.’
‘That for a tale,’ scoffed Ash, losing interest. His scepticism was understandable, for though he had read that the Indians of North America had long since learned the trick of sending visual messages by means of smoke, the somewhat similar method of communication described by Mulraj, and that would become known as the heliograph, was as yet unknown to the Indian Army, nor would it be used by them for some years to come. He therefore dismissed it as a fabrication, and remarked that it did not do to believe everything one was told.
‘Nor do I,’ retorted Mulraj. ‘But my spies tell me that it is no new thing in Bhithor and that it has been practised here for longer than anyone can remember. They say the secret of it was brought here by a merchant of this city who was a great traveller, and who learned the art from the Chinni-log' (he meant the Chinese) ‘many years before the Company's Raj came to power. Be that as it may, it is certain that all our movements will be watched and reported on, and that no messenger that we send will leave unobserved. They will be ready and waiting for him. And even if one should succeed in slipping through their net, I will wager fifty gold mohurs to five rupees that the only answer he will bring back from the Political Sahib will be a request that you use great restraint and do nothing that might upset the Rana.’
‘Done,’ returned Ash promptly. ‘You'll lose, because he'll have to take action on this.’
‘I shall win, because, my friend, your Government does not wish to quarrel with the princes. To do so might lead to bloodshed and armed rising, and that would mean the dispatching of regiments and the expenditure of much money.’
Unfortunately, Mulraj had been right – on both counts.
Ash had sent off a detailed report of the latest developments, and it was only after the best part of a week had passed without any sign of his messenger with the reply that stringent inquiries and a strongly worded protest to the Diwan revealed that the man had got no further than the far end of the gorge, where he had been stopped and subsequently held prisoner in the fort on a trumped-up charge. (He had, it seemed, ‘been mistaken for a notorious bandit' and the error was deeply regretted.) The second messenger did not go alone, but was accompanied by two armed troopers. They returned three days later, on foot, having been ambushed some twenty miles beyond the border by a party of dacoits who