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  ‘A cry for help from Arcot,’ Loxford said in his rusty, quavering voice. ‘Potton there is thirty troopers short, and Wrangham has appointed an inspection five days hence, accompanied,’ he added meaningly, ‘by his damned assistant-paymaster.’

  Amaury mulled it over. Obviously Potton, commanding the 4th Madras Cavalry, kept imaginary names upon his rolls and pocketed the pay - like other worthy colonels. The practice was reasonably foolproof because visiting generals never bothered to number heads. But paymasters were the devil; they had an ugly habit of counting men and tallying rolls and probing into payments and receipts.

  Potton, in grievous peril, must be rescued.

  ‘We can send him half a troop. Arcot is ninety miles off, three easy marches. I hope Potton owns spare regimentals, to clothe our men on arrival?’

  ‘He does.’ Loxford stretched a shaking hand to an arrack jar, filled and drained a glass in a gulp. ‘That is not all. Wrangham intends to return directly from Arcot and inspect us. With his paymaster,’ he finished forlornly.

  Amaury scratched his jaw. ‘An interesting exercise in time and space. We must beat the general to Arcot, and beat him back to Madras. We are, as I remember, wanting forty men. After his inspection Potton, in turn, must be persuaded to loan us our deficiencies. I had better take the troop myself to Arcot.’

  He departed in the morning on a leisurely peacetime march he thoroughly enjoyed. Sunrise washed the fields in gold, splintered a million gems from dew-drenched feathery grasses; trees colonnading the broad earth road flung shadows like fallen columns across wheel ruts striping the dust. There was a smell of spice and mangoes, the acrid tang of horses, and wispy blue-grey scarves of smoke that carried the reek of cowdung. They passed buffaloes going to graze, camels padding heavily through foot- deep roadside dust, goats and lumbering bullock carts, a potter driving his donkey, an elephant swaying a lordly way like a towering man-of-war.

  At Arcot he delivered his troopers to Colonel Potton, a languid pallid gentleman whose carefully jaded mannerisms concealed profound relief. ‘Upon my soul, I almost began-to worry,’ he said exhaustedly. ‘That zealous devil Wrangham is due tomorrow. We must kit your fellows quickly in our regimentals.’

  Amaury explained his need for a similar favour. ‘Of course, of course,’ Potton agreed, and detailed forty men. Amaury found quarters in an artillery mess in the fort, and there lay low after Wrangham arrived. He noted that the general travelled in moderate state, bringing carriages and hackeries and camels, a ponderous procession he could easily outpace on returning to Madras. Watching the parade from a window he recognized, scattered artfully along the files, his own troopers wearing the 4th Cavalry’s buff-faced scarlet. Wrangham made a thorough inspection, dogged by the assistant-paymaster, a portly uniformed civilian who sat his horse like a ploughboy and scribbled in a notebook.

  Potton found Amaury later, and tiredly brushed his forehead.

  ‘All deucedly unsettling,’ he murmured, ‘but I conceive we have defeated the enemy. A nasty, prying rogue, that paymaster - steering him clear of the forage stacks was damnably difficult. Four are nearly hollow inside, built over native tombs. Most fatiguing!’

  Amaury smiled sympathetically. All cavalry regiments in garrison stacked a reserve of forage which was gathered by native cutters held on regimental strength. You could either reduce the cutters and pocket the pay, or keep them up to numbers and sell their produce on the market. In either case the forage reserves were short; and fewer than the authorized stacks would meet an official eye. Hollow stacks were a new device which Amaury noted for future use.

  ‘When does Wrangham depart?’

  Tomorrow, hellish early - I shall have to see him off. You had better leave this evening, after dark. I shall send my men, and yours, to a temple beyond the native town. Pray return my fellows at your leisure when their purpose is accomplished.’

  Amaury collected his party at the rendezvous-seventy men and horses - marched five miles in starlight and encamped. Next day he ambled on, making little haste, and stopped at nightfall near a village thirty miles from Arcot. At dawn, while saddling up, the village headman begged Amaury to hunt a sounder of boar embayed in a grove nearby, for the animals wreaked havoc in his crops. Greatly tempted, he did mental sums and calculated that Wrangham’s bullock-fettered party must be all of twenty miles behind. No need for hurry: he could enjoy a morning’s sport and keep a comfortable lead. He countermanded his marching orders, borrowed from the headman a long ill-balanced spear and, trailed by whooping troopers, started for the grove.

  Which was a grave miscalculation that altered the course of his life.

  The boar were abundant, and ran far and fast. Amaury speared three, his troopers sabred more; in mid-afternoon they returned to camp and a volubly grateful headman. Amaury looked at his watch, dismissed an anxious twinge and ordered Boot and Saddle. They marched to an hour from sunset and began to make camp for the night among scattered mango groves. He heard distant muffled hoofbeats, saw dust billowing above the trees that bordered the road. Amaury had his men remounted on the instant: even in a Carnatic bereft of Tippoo Sultan a wise man took no chances when approached by bodies of horse. Frowningly he waited, fingering his sword.

  General Wrangham, powdered to the eyebrows, emerged from the travelling dust cloud.

  ‘Sunk, by God!’ said Amaury beneath his breath.

  Sir John came on at a trot, a small retinue eating his dust: officers of his staff, two files of dragoons, and the paymaster hot and galled and rolling in the saddle. He reined sharply and glared.

  ‘Amaury! What do you here?’

  Amaury said smoothly, ‘A march exercise, sir. We were about to camp.’

  ‘An exercise, hey?’ The general casually surveyed the ranks of native troopers. ‘I found marching at the bullocks’ speed irksome beyond endurance, pushed on and left the hackeries to follow.’ His gaze sharpened, fastened on the uniforms, wandered from man to man. ‘We intend halting at the Collector’s residence three miles on.’

  He walked his horse along the troopers staring glassily to their fronts. God strike him blind! prayed Amaury.

  But God was deaf.

  ‘What is this, sir? Wrangham asked in puzzled tones. He gestured along the ranks, to forty scarlet tunics faced with buff, and thirty yellow facings. ‘Why are you exercising a 4th Cavalry troop? How did they come here? Damme, I inspected them in Arcot two days since!’

  Amaury swallowed. ‘Colonel Potton considered his men should be practised in - er - long distance marching. My own were doing likewise, so we - um - collaborated.’

  Sir John considered this limping explanation. ‘Infernally odd! Can’t understand how they got here. However . . .’ He gathered his rein. Wrangham was an unsuspicious man, not given to delving far beneath the surface of appearances.

  Amaury held his breath.

  The paymaster legged his mount beside the general’s, plucked his sleeve and drew him out of earshot, flinging Amaury a hostile look as he went. He spoke rapidly in undertones, pointed to the varying regimentals, thumped his fist emphatically in palm. Wrangham’s ruddy countenance turned a deeper red; he regarded the ranks perplexedly, their commander with disbelief.

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘I assure you, sir!’ the paymaster asserted strongly. ‘Tis a fraud we have long suspected.’

  An angry, determined look settled on Wrangham’s face. ‘The question is easily settled.’ He walked his horse to Amaury and looked at him coldly. ‘I have changed my mind, sir. We camp here tonight, and march to Madras in company. I shall inspect the 7th Cavalry directly on arrival.’

  Spiked my guns, Amaury reflected. What a confounded stew! He saluted, led his men to the mango clumps and meditated deeply as he rode. Under his quiet directions the troops were distributed widely among the scattered groves, a section here, another there. Horses were off-saddled; but instead of picketing in the usual long straight rows troopers held the reins in hand and ate beside their mount
s. Amaury visited the widespread groups, spoke to every man, and received appreciative grins - what a sahib this was, accomplished in every knavery! He sent rations with his compliments to General Wrangham’s party sitting hungrily at the roadside: with bellies full he hoped they would sleep more soundly.

  When darkness fell the troopers quietly on-saddled, cinched girths, slid irons up the leathers to prevent them clinking.

  Amaury lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, and stared at the starry sky. Occasionally he looked at his watch. A breeze murmured in the grasses, pariahs barked monotonously from the village, jackals wailed in the distance. The more noise, he mused, the better. At one o’clock he rose, removed and pocketed his spurs, went silently across the fields, stopped short of the general’s camp-site. A row of picketed horses, blanket-swaddled bodies on the ground, an orchestra of snores. A dragoon sentry squatted apart, head lolling on his arms. Amaury smiled, retreated like a shadow to the nearest grove and whispered into the gloom.

  The troopers filed from the trees, leading horses, walking cautiously and slowly, and vanished in the dark. Amaury went from grove to grove, despatched the groups in turn and followed the last to go. A mile from the camp they mounted, fetched an arc across fields and scrub and found the road.

  ‘Now, brothers,’ he informed them, ‘we must ride as you have never ridden yet!’

  He swung an arm and led them away at a canter.

  An hour after gunfire, sweat runnelling the dust on the horses’ hides, they entered St George’s gates. ‘Water, feed and stables,’ Amaury ordered, ‘then change your regimentals.’ He went to Loxford’s quarters, roused him sticky-eyed and shaking from his bed. Swiftly he summarized the situation. The colonel clutched his temples.

  ‘Deuce take it, Amaury,’ he quavered, ‘we’re done for! Wrangham has rumbled the ruse - what use are Potton’s men?’

  ‘He suspects us,’ Amaury snapped, ‘thanks to that infernal paymaster, but he has no proof. If we muster on parade at regulation strength what can the fellow say?’

  Loxford tottered to an arrack jar, filled and emptied a glass. ‘Heaven help us! How, for the love of God, will you explain your escape by night?’

  ‘Deliberate disobedience of a superior officer’s orders - I shall not try. ’Twas not an offence on campaign, so the penalty should be light - a reprimand or such. A trifling matter, a risk I weighed and took. More important to make all ready for the general. At daybreak he discovered us gone; rage will whip his travelling; he will reach Madras by afternoon and order an instant review.’

  ‘An afternoon parade?’ the colonel wailed. ‘The devil - it has never been done! This is too much!’ He reached for the jar, refreshed himself and sank back on the bed, an arm across his eyes. ‘Prepare the regiment, Amaury, prepare the regiment! Send me warning in good time. Damn and blast all meddling paymasters!’ Amaury left him gabbling, went to the quartermaster’s stores’ kitted forty 4th Cavalry troopers in yellow facings, and had them dispersed among the squadrons. He swallowed a belated breakfast and, soon after the noonday gun, received a travel-stained Anstruther conveying orders for a general’s parade in an hour’s time. ‘I don’t understand what you have done, sir, but I must warn you he is excessively angry.’

  ‘I am not,’ said Amaury dryly, ‘in the least surprised.’

  The sun glared down from a burning sky; shadows flowed like sharp black pools from the feet of men and horses. The 7th Cavalry paraded in line of squadrons, three troops up. Colonel Loxford, in front of the right-squadron, shook in the saddle like a man in the throes of ague. Amaury saw General Wrangham approaching from St Thomé Street. The assistant-paymaster, he noted resignedly, rode close beside his stirrup.

  ‘7th Cavalry, carry... swords!’

  Four hundred pommels thumped on thighs. Loxford trotted to the general and flourished his sabre in a Wavering salute. ‘Regiment ready for review, sir!’

  Wrangham gave him an ice-cold look. ‘Colonel Loxford, I wish to see your parade state.’

  Loxford opened his mouth and stuttered incoherently. The adjutant at his elbow rattled off resourcefully, ‘One lieutenant colonel, one captain, two lieutenants, one cornet, six risaldars, six demadars, three hundred and eighty-three rank and file on parade ... sir!’

  The general’s mouth tightened. ‘You will give me the written rolls directly I have finished my inspection, if you please. Now, sir, I will review the regiment.’

  He rode slowly down the right-squadron’s ranks, and closely examined each man. The paymaster peered eagerly into impassive brown-skinned faces. Suddenly he wrenched his horse’s mouth, and pointed to a face that was scarred from chin to cheekbone by an ancient sabre cut.

  ‘I recognize that scar-faced fellow!’

  ‘You are certain?’

  The paymaster gobbled, jowls shuddering in excitement. ‘I noticed him at Arcot - I will stake my oath on it!’

  ‘Colonel Loxford, pray fall him out!’

  Amaury heard the exchange, and sighed. Twice more, halted by the paymaster’s jabbing finger, the inspection paused. ‘That squint-eyed rogue!’

  ‘The naigue with the broken nose!’

  Wrangham passed to the centre-squadron, acknowledged Amaury’s salute and looked him up and down. ‘I will hear your excuses, sir - if any you have - after dismissing the parade. You have much to explain!’

  Amaury followed him along the ranks. The tip of the paymaster’s fleshy nose quivered in his eagerness like a ferret at the entrance to a burrow. ‘There,’ he chattered. ‘There! The man lacking thumb and finger!’

  Wrangham examined the maimed hand, and turned on Amaury a face like stone. ‘This is one of your men, Captain Amaury?’

  ‘He is under my command.’

  The general flushed. ‘Don’t quibble, sir! I asked a plain question - pray give me a straight answer. Is he enlisted in your squadron?’

  Amaury felt his anger rising, and fought for control like a horse-breaker wrestling an unbroken colt. He had ridden sixty miles in twenty-four hours, and had not slept for thirty-six; fatigue and mental stress had taken toll. The ageing general, wearied by a forty-mile ride, infuriated by the deception foisted on him, was nearing flash-point. Two tired, mutually antagonistic men sat face to face in blinding sunlight; their glances crossed and locked like swords.

  ‘That, sir, you will doubtless ascertain when you examine the rolls,’ Amaury said boredly.

  Wrangham slammed a fist on his knee. ‘God damme, sir, I demand an answer!’

  Amaury’s temper snapped. ‘God damn you, sir, I answer or not as I please! Must I be quizzed like a truant schoolboy by you and your infernal spy?’ He levelled his sabre at the paymaster. ‘You accept this lackey’s word - are you not competent, General Wrangham, to conduct your own inquiries?’

  A leaden hue tinged Loxford’s sunken cheeks; he made odd noises in his throat. The general’s staff, frozen into stillness, were rigid horrified statues. Disbelief and fury struggled in Wrangham’s face. ‘Captain Amaury,’ he said in strangled tones, ‘you are under arrest.’ Amaury’s implications filtered into a wrathful mind and kindled incandescence. ‘Do you insinuate, sir,’ he said in a shaking voice, ‘that I am incapable in my duties?’

  ‘Both incapable and devious, sir!’ Amaury rasped. ‘Your conduct is quite derogatory to the character of a gentleman!’

  ‘No, for God’s sake!’ Loxford breathed. A staff major sucked a hissing breath between his teeth.

  Amaury regretted the outburst directly it was spoken. Anger drained away; he would have sold his soul to the devil to recall his words. Wrangham’s mouth was white at the comers; the fury went from his face and left it old and tired.

  ‘I trust you realize what you have said, Captain Amaury,’ he remarked quietly, and turned to Loxford. ‘I have no mind to continue this farce, sir - already your chicanery is evident. I shall institute a full inquiry into the methods you and Colonel Potton have used to defraud the Company. Meanwhile, with Captain Amaury, co
nsider yourself under arrest. The regiment may dismiss. Good day, sir!’

  Colonel Loxford gave Amaury a look of bleak despair, fumbled with his reins and wandered blindly from the Parade.

  ‘A shocking pickle!’ Marriott observed.

  Amaury assented morosely. Confined by arrest to a narrow orbit between the Fort and Moubray’s Gardens, unable to ride the countryside or go into society, he was suffering from lack of exercise and self-reproach - an emotion entirely lacking any element of repentance. It was not in Amaury’s nature to lament the failure of a stratagem he had attempted open-eyed, knowing discovery meant disaster. But he cursed himself roundly for an uncontrollable tongue; and when he pictured the consequence he felt fear like a cold grey snake slide slithering in his bowels. Seringapatam’s valorous hero would be branded as a coward.

  A Commission of Inquiry had gone to Arcot; another sat in Fort St George. Day after day they delved into nominal rolls, ration returns, accounts and clothing ledgers, examined native officers, quartermasters, troopers. Loxford, completely spent, broke down and made no effort to refute the accusations. Amaury had not yet been called. ‘I shall admit nothing whatsoever,’ he told Marriott, ‘and let them prove what they can. What can they say? A vulgar, prying paymaster says he identified 4th Cavalry troopers in the 7th Cavalry’s ranks. Proof? His word against mine! The evidence has gone - we sent them galloping to Arcot that very afternoon.’

  ‘The Commission,’ said Marriott seriously, ‘has only to tally the numbers in your regiment.’

  Amaury laughed without amusement. ‘Let them count until they squint! I scoured the villages and enlisted forty men within a day. Most can hardly sit a horse, few can tell a carbine’s bore from butt - but there they are, safely numbered on the rolls. Loxford was a fool to admit so much!’