night before the final battle, the Rathors slept well, glad for the chance to avenge
themselves; they were awakened by what had never been heard of before —an attack before dawn, under cover of the last darkness.
As shot and shell showered the camp, the Rathors awoke from an opiumed sleep to find the day already lost in confusion. Calmly,
a certain Rana of Ahwa called twenty-two other chiefs to his side, and calmly they gathered four thousand horsemen; these
four thousand prepared an opium draught, raised it to the sky and drank; they wrapped themselves in shawls of yellow silk,
the colour of death; calmly, every last action prescribed by tradition was completed, and then the four thousand rode out
to the field where de Boigne’s battalions were advancing. The cry ‘Remember Patan’ was heard, and thenthe yellow horsemen dashed onto the ranks in front of them. Four bodies of men retreated before them, and then they faced
de Boigne’s main force, which was already settling into a hollow square. The Rathors split and enveloped the square and charged,
to be faced by a wall of bayonets and muskets; again, the volleys tore through the mass of horsemen, again, the Rathors, the
yellow-clad-ones, plunged madly forward; de Boigne watched, silenced, as they came back again and again; clenching his teeth,
he looked up at the sky, looked away, then back, and they came on; finally, with grey smoke and the smell of powder and blood
thickening the air and stinging his eyes, he understood that a man can become a general despite himself, that for some there
is no escape from the siren call of the future; he looked about and saw with great clarity the frozen faces of his men as
they reloaded, the gobulets of sweat on a soldier’s forehead, a torn turban being blown about in the backwash from a cannon
discharge, a horse on its side, kicking, and something wet and moving and red and white pulsing in a long tear in its neck,
a shawl of yellow silk torn and floating and tugging with each volley, a hand poised, palm upward, as if begging, and they
came again, and then again —there is no retreat in yellow —till there were only fifteen left.
There was a silence as the fifteen dismounted, a silence that is often heard in battle, when, incredibly, the chirping and
twittering and flapping of birds can be heard in distant trees. De Boigne watched as the Rana of Ahwa dismounted and stood
by his horse, stroking its forehead, between its eyes. The Rana looked up at the sky, then slapped the horse on its rump.
He straightened his yellow shawl, then turned and walked towards de Boigne, the other Rathors following him. De Boigne looked
at the Rana’s face, noting the grey moustache and the bushy eyebrows, the bushy beard and the large, accepting grey eyes with
bags beneath them. The Rathors walked, and there was no fire for them, no one to grant them the promise of their yellow silk;
de Boigne opened his mouth but found that his lips were parched, that no words would emerge; in his great clearness, he felt
an emptiness within him, a finishedness, and understood that there would be no more visions for him; looking into the Rana’s
calm grey eyes —so very close now —de Boigne understood that these eyes, clear and far-seeing, had freed him from private
phantom sight; he knew that what he had to do now wasthe end of all romance; gathering all his strength in his throat, de Boigne shouted, and there were no words, no sense, only
a howl was heard, a howl like that of an animal trapped by steel teeth, but every man in the line understood, and there was
flame, and the grey eyes disappeared.
Sandeep raised a cup to his mouth and sipped. Something moved in the trees up on the mountain side, and a cicada called in
alarm. Shanker wrapped a shawl around his shoulders. Sandeep began again:
Listen….
The years passed, and there were other victories for de Boigne; he amassed a fortune of three
themselves; they were awakened by what had never been heard of before —an attack before dawn, under cover of the last darkness.
As shot and shell showered the camp, the Rathors awoke from an opiumed sleep to find the day already lost in confusion. Calmly,
a certain Rana of Ahwa called twenty-two other chiefs to his side, and calmly they gathered four thousand horsemen; these
four thousand prepared an opium draught, raised it to the sky and drank; they wrapped themselves in shawls of yellow silk,
the colour of death; calmly, every last action prescribed by tradition was completed, and then the four thousand rode out
to the field where de Boigne’s battalions were advancing. The cry ‘Remember Patan’ was heard, and thenthe yellow horsemen dashed onto the ranks in front of them. Four bodies of men retreated before them, and then they faced
de Boigne’s main force, which was already settling into a hollow square. The Rathors split and enveloped the square and charged,
to be faced by a wall of bayonets and muskets; again, the volleys tore through the mass of horsemen, again, the Rathors, the
yellow-clad-ones, plunged madly forward; de Boigne watched, silenced, as they came back again and again; clenching his teeth,
he looked up at the sky, looked away, then back, and they came on; finally, with grey smoke and the smell of powder and blood
thickening the air and stinging his eyes, he understood that a man can become a general despite himself, that for some there
is no escape from the siren call of the future; he looked about and saw with great clarity the frozen faces of his men as
they reloaded, the gobulets of sweat on a soldier’s forehead, a torn turban being blown about in the backwash from a cannon
discharge, a horse on its side, kicking, and something wet and moving and red and white pulsing in a long tear in its neck,
a shawl of yellow silk torn and floating and tugging with each volley, a hand poised, palm upward, as if begging, and they
came again, and then again —there is no retreat in yellow —till there were only fifteen left.
There was a silence as the fifteen dismounted, a silence that is often heard in battle, when, incredibly, the chirping and
twittering and flapping of birds can be heard in distant trees. De Boigne watched as the Rana of Ahwa dismounted and stood
by his horse, stroking its forehead, between its eyes. The Rana looked up at the sky, then slapped the horse on its rump.
He straightened his yellow shawl, then turned and walked towards de Boigne, the other Rathors following him. De Boigne looked
at the Rana’s face, noting the grey moustache and the bushy eyebrows, the bushy beard and the large, accepting grey eyes with
bags beneath them. The Rathors walked, and there was no fire for them, no one to grant them the promise of their yellow silk;
de Boigne opened his mouth but found that his lips were parched, that no words would emerge; in his great clearness, he felt
an emptiness within him, a finishedness, and understood that there would be no more visions for him; looking into the Rana’s
calm grey eyes —so very close now —de Boigne understood that these eyes, clear and far-seeing, had freed him from private
phantom sight; he knew that what he had to do now wasthe end of all romance; gathering all his strength in his throat, de Boigne shouted, and there were no words, no sense, only
a howl was heard, a howl like that of an animal trapped by steel teeth, but every man in the line understood, and there was
flame, and the grey eyes disappeared.
Sandeep raised a cup to his mouth and sipped. Something moved in the trees up on the mountain side, and a cicada called in
alarm. Shanker wrapped a shawl around his shoulders. Sandeep began again:
Listen….
The years passed, and there were other victories for de Boigne; he amassed a fortune of three
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