The Deceivers Read Free

the presentation; and George Angelsmith was officially his junior.
    He said, ‘That’s Bhadora. It has thirty-six houses -- no thirty-five. One burned down in December. The river’s the Seonath. The village was a ruin when we took this area over from the Bhonslas eight years ago. Wars. Civil wars. Dacoits. Pindaris. Every kind of robbery under arms. My predecessor put the place on its feet, with Chandra Sen’s help. It’s grown even in my time -- that’s three years.’
    He turned at the dust-dulled thud of hoofs from behind. George was approaching at a slow trot. They had not seen him since leaving Jabera early in the morning, but he was as immaculate now as he had been then. He lifted his hand in salute as he came up. Mary smiled curtly, and blushed, and turned down her eyes. William saw, jerked his reins, and led the way at a canter down the hill, not turning to look at the others.
    The village of Bhadora lay on this, the east bank of the Seonath River. The dusty road became a paved street where it passed through between the houses. Generally there would be women and children and old men about at this hour, but today the place was deserted. Down by the river the usual crowd of travellers waited, the usual piles of blackened stones and grey wood-ash littered the grass, the usual chatter and clamour arose. The ferryboat was on the far side, loaded for its return trip. William saw a small crowd over there, not at the ferry site but a good distance farther to the left, upstream. That was not usual, but they were too far away for him to see what they were doing. It did not seem to be anything violent; he made out that some of the people were walking about, some apparently arguing, the majority squatting motionless in irregular groups on the ground, all waiting for something.
    He turned back and looked at the ferry site directly opposite. Beyond the approaching barge, he saw Chandra Sen’s party at the front edge of the jungle. He half raised his hand to wave a greeting, but lowered it again. It would be poor etiquette for them to notice each other before they met at the appointed place, which was the west bank of the river.
    ‘Is that this fellow -- Chandra Sen -- who’s going to get the scroll?’
    George’s voice was at his ear. He answered, ‘Yes. The thin one in white, alone, in front of the others.’ It always astonished him that the people at headquarters should know so little about the districts. Chandra Sen, Jagirdar, Patel of Padwa and Kahari, was a very important man. He had been a senior revenue official for a time to the Bhonslas’ court in Nagpur. As patel of two villages, he owned most of the lands, was the police chief, magistrate, mayor, and tax collector. As jagirdar, he held fifty thousand acres of jungle in feudal tenure and was responsible for the protection of the hamlets enclosed in it.
    George’s supercilious tone nettled William, and, as much to change the subject as for any other reason, he added, ‘I wonder what that crowd upstream is doing.’
    George said, ‘Your friend Chandra Sen will tell us, I expect, if it’s any of our business.’
    William flushed slightly. It was very easy here to imagine that everything was your business. He turned his eyes away from the mysterious crowd, dismounted, and watched the ferryboat come to land.
    As the flat, straight prow touched the bank and the passengers began to scramble off, the waiting Indians surged forward to get on. Goats bleated, cows mooed, children yelled, mothers screamed. The ferryman, a tall old fellow with bloodshot eyes, jumped down on to the grass, while his four big sons rested on their poles and held the boat steady. The old man bawled, ‘Get back, you daughters of darkness! Do you think the great lord Collector-sahib wishes to smell your stinking carcasses in the same boat with him?’
    The crowd halted, muttered, and ebbed patiently back. William cried, ‘Let them on. Just leave room for us and our three horses.’ The