Rogue Officer (15 page)

‘Was that necessary?’ he said to the Dutchman.

‘Very,’ replied Hilversum, ‘and not half what the bloody sepoys are going to get once we’re clear of this lot. I’ve been subjected to the meanest treatment by them, and I’m going to get my own back. I was stripped and searched in the most intimate places – still sore from that nasty experience. They laughed while they did it, and him the loudest. That jack-o’-napes was lucky I didn’t boot him off the bridge. I was sorely tempted. It was only the fact that one of his soldiers might take a shot at me which stopped me, I can tell you, Lieutenant.’

‘Point taken – but the prisoners are mine, not yours.’

Hilversum sighed. ‘Meaning you’ll take them back to be tried by a court martial which will, without any doubt whatsoever, sentence them to death by the guns or by the rope. What a waste of time . . .’

Hilversum was still complaining when they reached the far side. Jack then sent the disarmed Chinese soldiers over the bridge. On the way they collected their leader. The ropes were then cut and the bridge fell like a flimsy black spider’s web on to the far side of the gorge. No one fired a shot. It was doubtful the Chinese muskets were effective over two hundred yards in any case. The Enfields certainly were: they could take a man out at a thousand yards, so the Chinese were wise not to open fire and start a shooting match.

Jack asked Hilversum, ‘What happened to the rest of the sepoys? Just the havildar and the fat one left?’

The Dutchman ran a quick finger over his throat in reply.

Sergeant King and Sajan had seen soldiers too. They passed the watchtower in the early dawn, on their way to the village where Jack had first escaped his sepoy abductors. King was still in seventh heaven, calculating the height of mountains, none of which he knew the names of. It wouldn’t matter. He could find out their names later. In the meantime he had produced a very creditable map of the area through which he had travelled and had altitude figures enough to please anyone who desired them.

‘What have we got left for the pot, son?’ he asked Sajan. They were running desperately short on food now. ‘Shall I shoot a hare?’

He was being facetious and Sajan knew it. Farrier King had about as much chance of hitting a running mammal as stealing the jewel from the Green Idol of Kathmandu in neighbouring Nepal. They had taken to sneaking down to farms at night and stealing anything that was not locked away. Sajan had even managed to get a cockerel one night, gripping it by the throat before it could call out, and leaving a few feathers strewn around so that its owners would believe a predator got it. The pair of them had feasted on that bird for two days, before having to do another dangerous foray.

It was with some disappointment that King heard English accents one night, passing below the tower. He went to the parapet and hissed down into the darkness, ‘Sir, up here!’

Wynter’s voice came back up, ‘Who the devil is that?’

Then Crossman’s voice said, ‘Who do think, you idiot? King, where are you?’

‘In the tower, sir. We’ll come down.’

Sajan was roused and the pair of them gathered their materials together before joining the group below. There was a reunion, not so much joyous as pleasant. Then the party was on its way again, a forced march heading towards the Indian border. It seemed necessary to Jack to get out of Chinese territory as soon as possible. They reached India skirting the border with Nepal, which was also a dangerous place for foreigners. Once back on the Indian plains they felt a little safer, and camped for two days, where they rested, bathed and took stock of their adventure.

Hilversum was able for the first time to inspect his handguns. Upon opening his bag he was surprised to find an intruder in there.

‘What’s this? Not one of mine.’

Jack saw it was his five-shot Tranter revolver, with its unusual trigger cocking device. ‘No, that belongs to me. It was taken from me when I was captured. The sepoys must have put it in your bag.’

Hilversum nodded, handing it over to the lieutenant.

‘Now, let me show you this,’ said the Dutchman. ‘You spoke about being in a duel recently? And missing your target? This, sir, is a duelling pistol no self-respecting officer should be without.’

He unwrapped a piece of velvet cloth. Inside was a rather plain-looking handgun. But Jack could see that it was a finely crafted weapon, even without fancy embellishments. There was a silver butt cap with a brass ball, either for attaching a lanyard or for balance. But apart from these the walnut stock was free of frivolous decorations. Jack picked it up and felt its balance. It fitted comfortably and snugly in his fist.

‘What’s so effective about this weapon?’ he asked Hilversum, as others crowded round to look at the weapon. ‘Does it shoot straight?’

‘Not only is it accurate to the thickness of a shadow,’ replied the Dutchman, ‘it will take a man’s arm off. The calibre, sir, is .70. If you take this weapon, for example, or this – also both single-shot pistols – the calibres are .32 and .42 respectively. They are the norm. This beautiful killer was made by Andrew Wurfflein of Philadelphia in the Americas. Plane back action lock, single-set trigger with a guard spur. There is a vacant silver name escutcheon at the wrist. It should bear your name, Lieutenant.’

Jack blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, this is a gift for saving my life. If you ever have to fight your man again, this weapon will be your saviour. Let me show you . . .’ He took the pistol back and proceeded to load it with the rammer. ‘This particular model normally has an eight-inch-long barrel, but this one is a twelve-inch – it has a secondary use as a sharpshooter’s pistol. It will kill at a distance. There, it’s ready. Would you like to fire it?’

‘After dinner, thank you. We must eat first. However, I do thank you for such a generous gift.’

Hilversum waved this away. ‘My life is worth far more.’

Wynter pushed forward. ‘Don’t we get no gift neither? We was there too, helping save your life.’

‘These are all single-shot pistols, I’m afraid.’

‘I an’t fussy. What’s that little ’un, there?’

Hilversum looked. ‘That? That, my lean hungry friend, is the answer to a gentleman’s ruin.’

‘Meanin’?’

‘Meaning if you were a gentleman – Lord Such-and-such or Earl So-and-so – and had gambled away the family estates, that pistol would be your salvation. You would sit at your desk, take infinite pains in loading and priming the weapon under the disapproving gaze of your pater’s last portrait, throw back one final glass of the reserve brandy, place the barrel to your temple – and
voilà
– splatter your brains all over the blotter.’

‘I’ll have that ’un, then.’

An exasperated King said, ‘But Wynter, you don’t have any estates to lose.’

Wynter was slightly indignant. ‘That don’t mean I’m no better’n a lord. I’m as good as anybody with this ’ere pistol in me pocket.’

He took it, wrapped it in a filthy handkerchief, and put it away within the folds of his clothes. In his own eyes Wynter had now raised himself to the level of an upper class gentleman, having in his possession the means to dispose of himself should he bring the family name into disrepute. Thereafter, when he sat down to cards or dice with the lads, he would always place the pistol on the table, ready to do the right thing should he lose all on the turn of a card. Wynter was a proud man, so he told himself. If earls and whatnot could take the noble way out, so could he. No coward, Wynter.

Raktambar declined to choose a weapon, but Gwilliams took the opportunity of owning an Allen and Wheelock .32 single-shot pistol with a spur trigger and chequered hammer.

‘There we are then,’ said Hilversum. ‘All equipped to deal with any emergency duel – or otherwise. Now, have any of you gentlemen the means of a smoke?’

Gwilliams produced a foul-looking cigar which the Dutchman wisely declined, but he borrowed a clay pipe from Sergeant King who carried several. To Jack’s delight and contentment, King had also brought with him Jack’s long curved-stemmed Turkish chibouque, which he happily stuffed with King’s tobacco and sat puffing for a good long half hour. Then came the call to dinner, which King had prepared. They sat on their haunches to eat, having released the two prisoners on oath, so that they could also be fed. Raktambar had prepared chapatis for the two sepoys, stuffed with wild onions. The halvidar and sepoy seemed grateful enough.

Halfway through the meal, a shout went up from King.

‘Hey! They’ve bolted!’

Jack looked up to see his two prisoners several hundred yards away, running hell for leather towards the edge of a forest. He knew that if they ever reached those trees the pair would be lost to him.

‘Gwilliams, Wynter.’

‘Bloody hell,’ cried Wynter, his mouth full of food, but he jumped to his feet and he and the corporal set out after the two runaways.

Nearing the trees, the havildar turned and made a derogatory gesture with his hand, thus incensing Jack.

‘Damn his eyes,’ he said exasperated. ‘We should have hung them.’

It was a meaningless expression of regret. Jack Crossman was not a hanging man. He felt that though it was cowardly, he preferred such justice to be left to the authorities, not really having the stomach for summary executions. It was one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle: quite another to do so on a cold dawn morning with one’s soul lying quiet and peaceful.

The sepoy reached the forest and entered, with the havildar close on his heels.

An explosion by Jack’s ear made him jump sideways and clutch his head for a moment. His ears rang with the sound. In the distance the havildar threw out his arms and shot forward, as if kicked in the back by a mule. He fell in the grasses, out of sight, and did not rise. Jack blinked away some gunsmoke as Wynter and Gwilliams reached the fallen man. They looked down, then they looked back. Gwilliams waved his arms, a signal Jack failed to interpret. The lieutenant then turned to stare at the Dutchman.

Hilversum was still maintaining the half-sideways pose of a shooter, feet shoulder-width apart, right arm out straight, weapon an extension of the wrist, one eye still closed, the aiming eye narrowed. In his fist, still smoking, he held Jack’s new gift of the single-shot pistol.

Hilversum lowered the weapon slowly to his side and turned to smile at Crossman.

‘Accurate? Very. Did you see that? It must be three-hundred yards. Have you ever known a pistol to be so sure at such a distance?’

‘Did I order you to kill him?’ cried Jack. For some reason unknown even to himself he was angry with the Dutchman.

Hilversum, the smile gone, turned cold grey eyes on Jack. ‘I need no order. That pig was ready to kill me without a thought, just as he killed one of his own men. Why do you care? He would have done the same to you. Please get things into perspective, Lieutenant. That man was a rebel and a murderer. I had no other choice but to do what should have been done earlier. As it is, the fat one got away. The heart must have been bursting in his chest . . .’

Before Jack could make an answer Gwilliams and Wynter arrived back. Wynter went straight to the food again and began chomping.

Gwilliams said, ‘Hole between his shoulder blades as big as my fist.’

‘As I said,’ Hilversum remarked, back to his cheery mode again, ‘it would take the head off a pi-dog.’

No more was said of the incident. Jack was puzzled by his own outburst. Of course Hilversum had been within his rights to shoot an escaping prisoner, especially a man who might murder again. Jack himself should have grabbed a rifle and carried out the deed. Yet he felt a deep anger about all this killing. He was a soldier, sure, and soldiers are required to kill the enemy, but death should not be the answer to all and every problem encountered by soldiering. There had been butchery enough in this uprising and someone, somewhere, had to call a halt. You could not wade around in blood for ever and blame the other side for atrocities. If it continued in this way the Ganges would flow pink and foul for ever.

Gwilliams came to him as he brooded by the campfire.

‘Sir, I know what you’re thinkin’ – but he asked for it.’

Jack, surprised, said, ‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

‘I know the look. But we ain’t finished yet, here in this mess. Right or wrong we’ve got to do our duty.’

Jack nodded. ‘I feel some philosophy coming my way.’

Gwilliams, his auburn beard glinting in the firelight, grinned.

‘Them Spartans was the ones for battle. Couldn’t walk off the field if there was even one enemy warrior left standin’. I recall a story that there was once a battle fought to a standstill and two of ’em left – a Spartan and one of the enemy. They agreed to call it a draw. That Spartan went home and got thunder from his own wife and relations. Shame, they cried. They said he should’ve died rather’n walk off the field. How’s that for duty?’

‘I’m a terrible mixture of English, Scottish and probably one or two others, further back, but all I can say is – I’m glad I’m not a Spartan.’

‘Me too,’ said the corporal with a smile. ‘You got to have
some
choice in your own fate, I say. Goddam generals want to preach everythin’ to you, but whether a man chooses to stay and die for nuthin’ – why, that’s up to him.’

T
he following morning Rudi Hilversum came to Jack and announced he was parting company.

‘Are you sure that is wise?’ asked Jack. ‘The country is still in turmoil, you know. A lone civilian will be prey to every dacoit and badmash on the road. I know you can shoot, I’ve been witness to that, but one man alone? You’d be better to stick with us for a few more miles – at least until we reach some European outpost, if not a town.’

Hilversum shook his head. ‘I’ll take my chances, Lieutenant.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘It just remains for me to thank you again, for coming back. I can’t say I’d have done it for you, because I probably wouldn’t have. That’s me, I’m afraid. If I’d had any honour, I’d be in the army, I suppose. As it is, I just want to make money. I’d as soon sell a gun to a rebel sepoy as to an officer of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, bless her buxom bottom.’