Rogue Officer (17 page)

A subaltern of the 95th came to see him, a reed-thin boy of about twenty years carrying a heavy Roman nose on his sharp face. This was Jack’s guard.

‘Told to look after you. Comfortable, old chap?’

‘Not really,’ replied Jack. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m about to be hauled up in front of your colonel. Could you have a basin or two of water sent in so that I can spruce myself up a bit?’ A thought came to Jack. ‘Listen, as you’re aware I’m in a bit of bother. I would feel very inferior going before the colonel in these rags. I wonder if you know any lieutenants in the 88th? There must be a couple of them around, with a whole company here. Any possibility of me borrowing a uniform? I’d feel more army in a uniform. In these cottons I’m very much the poor cousin.’

The young subaltern looked a bit dubious.

‘I can get you the water of course – but the uniform . . .’

‘I would be most grateful. I can assure you as a brother officer I am not guilty of this charge. I do undercover work and this has all been a frightful mistake, believe me.’

‘You mean stuff like Hodson used to do?’

‘That’s exactly it – just like Hodson. I go out amongst the natives, glean information, and bring it back. I was abducted and made prisoner by some mutineers and simply have to clear myself now.’ Jack injected a little persuasive lie. ‘I worked for John Nicholson, before the Delhi attack.’

It was true he had provided information helpful to the attack, but had not directly reported to Brigadier-General Nicholson, a hero of the North West Frontier and whose very name worked like magic on Sikhs, Pathans and romantic subalterns with visions of glory in their heads.

‘You knew Nicholson?’ He breathed the name.

‘We were brothers of the blade.’

The subaltern swallowed and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can for you – can’t promise of course – but I’ll do my best.’

‘I very much appreciate it.’

The subaltern, whose name Jack had learned was Simon Keenlyside, left the bungalow. Shortly afterwards an Indian bearer brought some hot water for Jack to wash in. He carried out an all-over bathe, standing one foot in the bowl alternately. The water was soon black. More was fetched, now that he had the ear of the bearer. When the subaltern returned triumphant with a full dress uniform, including boots, Jack was indeed ‘spruced’, having trimmed his beard, nails and hair. Lieutenant Crossman looked almost respectable.

‘Lieutenant Cathaway sends these with his compliments,’ said the subaltern. ‘Though he also said if you’re found guilty he’ll burn the whole lot and never trust a brother officer again.’

‘Does he know who charged me with this crime?’

‘Yes – Deighnton – which is why he’s loaning you his kit. Cathaway apologizes for the dark patch on the seat of the trousers – camel sweat. The 88th and the Rifles have formed together here to make the Camel Corps and we had a parade the other day. Very hot. Camels sweated like – well, like bloody camels. Devil to get out are camel sweat stains. Can’t do it, really. Anyway, he apologizes, and says he hopes you draw Deighnton’s cork.’

‘Ah, fortunately for me the captain makes enemies amongst the infantry wherever he goes.’

‘And Cathaway admires Nicholson as much as I do – you fought with him, you say?’

‘In the streets of Delhi . . .’ Which was not a lie, and Jack went on to tell the story, because he felt he owed it to this young man, even though he was itching to be at the pen and paper he had found in the desk in the bungalow.

The prisoners remained where they were for the next eighteen hours. Curries and coffee were supplied. Jack considered his position. The charges had been manufactured by Captain Deighnton, but Jack was at a loss to understand why. Picking a duel with a man because you have reason to believe he has insulted your good friend is one thing. That package came wrapped up in honour. But to deliberately go after that man with lies and deceit – where was the honour and satisfaction in that? Men like Deighnton had a very warped sense of honour it was true, but such men also sought glory. There was absolutely no glory in the dirty business of a trumped-up charge of desertion. Jack was completely flummoxed and decided he did not know Deighnton at all. He thought he had had him pegged but this cavalry officer was more than just a bully. It was a most perplexing puzzle.

In the cool of the following early morning, Jack was sent for. Lieutenant Keenlyside marched him to a palace boasting graceful arches and beautiful latticework windows which was now used by the local commander as his headquarters. On enquiry Jack had learned his name was Colonel Boothroyde, an infantry commander. On the way Jack saw both native and HM troops going about their business around the camp. One or two glanced curiously at him, since he stood out among them in his dress uniform. The heavy stink from the cesspits which had bothered him so much at first was wearing a little thinner as the faeces and urine dried under the sun. The odour from the rotting carcasses did not lessen, however, and he could see some men with perfumed kerchiefs pressed to their noses. In the near distance Jack could see the limp bodies of three hanged men, still on the gibbet, a flock of dark birds hovering around what remained of their heads.

Jack was taken up some marble steps and through a magnificent doorway, the pointed arches of which were decorated with inlaid chips of semi-precious stones: jasper, jade, lapis lazuli, garnet, cornelian, mother-of-pearl, malachite, and several others. The coloured mosaics stood out starkly in the white marble, chipped in many places; Jack suspected by musket balls or grapeshot. He was led around a courtyard of fountains and pools full of lilies hedged with myrtle and cornered with cypress trees to another great five-arched portico where the walls were covered with Sanskrit script which he could not read. Thence up another marble staircase and through yet another doorway supported by slender marble columns into what appeared to be the banqueting hall. Glancing up Jack could see ceiling paintings on what looked like leather and there were marble lions resting around the edges of the hall, staring at the occupants with steady glazed eyes.

In the middle of the hall, trestle tables had been erected and chairs set out. Behind the tables was a colonel, with Major O’Hay to his left and Deighnton to his right. The warrior returns, thought Jack, avoiding Deighnton’s direct stare. Jack was certain that Deighnton would have killed him rather than bringing him back for ‘justice’. He must be feeling as sick as a dog, Jack told himself, to find me here waiting for him.

Jack was marched forward, his and Keenlyside’s boots echoing in the great hall. A burly sergeant major eyed him disinterestedly. Jack knew the man was there in case he lost his temper and tried to attack any of the ‘judges’ sitting at the table.

The colonel opened proceedings by introducing himself and informing Jack that this was by the way of a preliminary inquiry.

‘. . . into the charge of desertion in the face of the enemy.’

Chilling. A charge that carried the death penalty. Jack had a passing thought about those three hanged men but dismissed it. More likely it would be a firing squad. Live practice for any untried new recruits.

‘Have you anything to say at this stage – ’ he looked down at a sheet of paper in front of him – ‘Lieutenant Kirk?’

‘My name, sir, is Lieutenant Crossman.’

Deighnton was smirking.

The colonel shook his head in a puzzled way. ‘I understand your name to be Alexander Kirk. Is that incorrect?’ The colonel looked sharply up at Keenlyside. ‘Have you brought me the wrong man, sir?’

Before the bewildered and flustered subaltern could answer, Deighnton interrupted. ‘He calls himself Jack Crossman for some devious reasons of his own.’

‘Sir,’ replied Jack, standing stiffly to attention, ‘I respectfully request that you contact my superior officer, Major Lovelace or his superior, Colonel Hawke, whose orders I was following on this mission.’

‘Where did you get that uniform, Lieutenant?’ asked Deighnton fiercely. Clearly the captain was suffering a great disappointment, finding his quarry had managed to turn out the very image of a smart soldier. ‘The last time I saw you, you were in Pathan’s rags.’

Colonel Boothroyde interrupted him. ‘That is hardly relevant, Captain. I’m more interested in getting to the truth here, and I’m already very confused.’ He stared at Jack. ‘Lieutenant, you bear an assumed name?’

Jack sighed, having told the story so many times before.

‘I joined the army under a pseudonym in order that my father, a major in the 93rd, should not interfere in my career. Had he known I was in the army he would have wished to purchase me a lieutenancy, which I did not want him to do. In fact I rose to the rank of my own accord from a private soldier. For reasons not the concern of this inquiry, deep domestic reasons which were important at the time but are now irrelevant, I chose to remain Jack Crossman.’

‘Most irregular, but a man’s private affairs are his own, I suppose,’ replied the colonel, shuffling his papers for the third time.

The colonel was a small man, white-haired, with a kindly face. He was withered looking, possibly from too much sun, but his blue eyes shone with an understanding light. Jack felt very much relieved he was not in front of some blustering fool of a colonel whose brains were in the seat of his pants. Jack felt emboldened to offer his defence.

‘Sir, may I proffer my report? My escort has it in his case.’

Major O’Hay’s eyes widened.

‘When did you write that?’

‘Last night, sir. It’s the report I shall be handing to either Major Lovelace or Colonel Hawke. It tells of my attempt to carry out my mission, my subsequent capture by rebel sepoys and my abduction into the Himalayan mountains by those rebels. My men realized I had gone missing, when I failed to appear at the rendezvous point, and followed my trail. I managed to escape before rescue was needed and when my men finally caught up with me, we continued after the rebels and wiped them out. So far as I am aware only one man unfortunately escaped justice when he ran off.’

Jack took the report from Keenlyside and placed it carefully on the table in front of the colonel, who peered at it myopically.

Deighnton was looking furious, as well he might. Here was his prey, all snapped out like an officer on parade, not a hair out of place, presenting the inquiry with a detailed account of his escapades. Deighnton had been expecting Jack to be dragged in, filthy and lice-ridden, wearing the same dirt and rags he had been carrying with him for several weeks.

The colonel read just a few lines of the report, then looked up and noticed Jack’s missing hand.

‘The . . . er . . . deformity – here?’

‘No, sir. Crimea.’

‘Ah – ’ the colonel glanced towards Deighnton – ‘and so you two knew each other in the Crimea?’

‘No, we did not,’ said Jack. ‘Until this moment I did not know of Captain Deighnton’s presence in the Crimea.’

‘Captain Deighnton is a survivor of that dreadful charge the Light Brigade made on Russian cannons, though not with his current regiment.’

He would be, thought Jack. Deighnton was likely to come out of a massacre without a scratch. He was that sort of officer. Damn it, how big did cannonballs have to be to hit a man like Deighnton? He probably rode through a hail of grapeshot and canister with men and horses going down on all sides, and felt only the wind of their passing. If rain were acid, men like Deighnton would walk through it without a drop falling on their shoulders.

‘He is a hero, Lieutenant. Were you a hero of the Crimea?’

‘He did his part,’ muttered Deighnton, without looking up. ‘I understand he distinguished himself at the battle for the Redan, which is where he lost his hand.’

‘So, two heroes of the Crimea, albeit one of lesser glory.’ He sighed deeply. ‘What a shame it has to come to this sort of thing, one officer accusing another. One would have thought the pair of you should be toasting each other, rather than be at daggers drawn. Most unfortunate. Now, Lieutenant, please give me an account in your own words . . .’

Jack began his story, noting that the colonel was reading the report in front of him as Jack was telling the tale, presumably to check that the two versions were more or less the same. Jack did vary his oral report slightly, knowing that if he was too exact he could be accused of learning his story by rote and trotting it out verbatim, which would be just as damning as coming out with a tale that differed considerably from the written version.

‘My men will verify those parts where they were involved, but of course cannot do so for the part where I was a captive. Nor can they confirm my orders, which were given to me orally by my superior in the presence of no one but ourselves. You will appreciate, sir, that this kind of work requires the utmost secrecy. If anything leaks out, through servants or others, to the general population, the missions would be at risk. My disguises would be useless to me and the whole effort would be compromised.’

The colonel turned to Deighnton. ‘Captain?’

Deighnton leaned back in his chair and tapped the table with a coin as he spoke. ‘All I know is I saw him run after freeing himself from a Ghazi zealot. The pair of them were brawling in the dust, scratching and kicking like two women. Crossman was fortunate that his Rajput servant was close by to behead the Ghazi, or he would have had his eyes clawed out . . .’

‘Those Ghazis are a formidable enemy,’ said the colonel. ‘Frightful fellows.’

‘After which I heard that Crossman had not been seen since. I learned from others that he had ridden north, galloped away from the scene of the fighting, leaving the battle behind him. It’s my contention that Crossman – I do not believe him to be a coward, having seen him fight with bravery on other occasions – became overwhelmed and confused by his encounter with the frenzied attack of the Ghazi. His mind disjointed, he took flight.’

Disjointed, mused Jack. Strange choice of word – but exceptionally clever.
‘His mind was disjointed.’
He’s not accusing me of cowardice, but the result would be the same. If I ran, I ran, whatever the reason. Yet the captain
understands
why I ran, albeit it is no excuse. So very clever. You bloody bastard, he thought. I wish you were dead. Why didn’t I shoot straight on that morning? Why didn’t I blow your cunning little brains out?