Rogue Officer (21 page)

‘Where will I get my orders, then?’ he asked.

‘You are to be given licence to hunt down stray groups of rebels, Lieutenant Crossman,’ came the reply. ‘Keep in contact, from time to time, with the authorities in this region – otherwise you and your men are on your own.’

Jack went to say his goodbyes to Rupert Jarrard.

Jarrard was in a large house converted to messes, talking with an infantry sergeant from the 95th. The sergeant, like the rest of his regiment, was heavily bearded and currently wearing a white smock, tattered blue trousers and Indian slippers. On his head he had a Kilmarnock forage cap with a white cover, a red-white cotton towel wrapped around the brim. There were officers going up the stairs to the upper rooms, where the commissioned ranks drank and ate, dressed in grey frocks. One of them who passed Jack wore a stove-pipe hat with a lady’s muslin scarf fluttering from it. Any dress code had temporarily been put aside and officers and men enjoyed eccentricities for a while.

‘Rupert, we’re off again.’

He had to shout. The hubbub in the room was tremendous, being full of NCOs from various regiments, including his own 88th, who along with two companies of the Rifles had been formed into a Camel Corps. He had that day seen soldiers having terrible trouble trying to control their dromedaries using – having no other information at their disposal – the same commands they might use on the old farm horses back in Connaught, Ireland. He had watched them sway and slide on the unfamiliar humps, yelling obscenities at their mounts. The camels themselves, naturally nasty-tempered to begin with, were angry at having to cope with some lump of an Irishman on their backs, a rider who had no idea what he was supposed to be doing and terrified by the height at which he did it.

Jarrard beckoned with a hand, waving Jack to his side.

Jack weaved his way through a bunch of 72nd in their faded tartan trews to reach Jarrard and his companion.

Jarrard roared, ‘Ah, the brave Lieutenant Crossman. Jack, shake hands with George here – he’s from Nottingham.’

The sergeant, a tall, red-faced man, saluted Jack a little apologetically.

‘Sergeant Stone, sir.’

Jarrard frowned, then twisted his face into a grimace. ‘Oh, yeah – I forgot. It’s this British class thing.’

‘Nothing to do with
class
, Rupert. This is an army thing – yours as well as ours, I’m willing to wager. I’m afraid I can’t drink in here, Rupert, any more than George here can drink upstairs. Happy to have you join me when you’re ready.’ He turned to face Stone. ‘You understand, Sergeant?’

‘Of course, sir,’ the man said nodding.

‘A year or two ago it would have been fine – I had the same stripes on my arm – but now . . .’

‘You’re not even in uniform, Jack. Who the hell can tell what you are in that get-up?’

Jack adjusted his kurta self-consciously.

‘There are people in this room who know me, Rupert. You might have noticed the place is crawling with Connaught Rangers. I’m already in enough trouble. I’ve been accused of desertion in the face of the enemy, a military crime punishable by death. I’m trying to make as few waves as possible until it’s all been cleared up. It’s best I remain as inconspicuous as possible for the time being.’

‘Right – inconspicuous – in a red turban.’

‘Don’t labour it, Rupert.’

Jarrard joined Jack in the officers’ mess just ten minutes later. Jack was enjoying a warm gin.

‘Sorry about that down there, but you know . . .’

‘So, you’re off into the jungle again?’ Jarrard asked.

‘How did you know?’ asked Jack, surprised.

‘No secrets amongst this lot.’ Jarrard waved his whisky glass around. ‘Even George knew about you. Your bunch of spies and saboteurs are becoming famous, Lieutenant Crossman. Someone will write a story about you one day, turning fact into legend.’ Jarrard grinned. ‘It might even be me.’

‘I thought you’d already tried that – in your column.’

‘Yeah, you’re right – it wasn’t all that successful, because you’re a damn Englishman. If you were an American backwoodsman, a grisly nobody from nowhere, and had opened up the Oregon Trail, I could have made you famous by now – but who the hell is interested in a British aristocrat in a red coat who goes into battle looking as if he’s entering a drawing room full of aunts and uncles? If you could just stoop a little when you walk, shamble into rooms carrying a battered old musket with worm-eaten stock, then we’d get somewhere:

Jack grinned. ‘Listen, Rupert, I’ve got to go. You look after yourself – the mutiny is contained, but not yet over.’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘Horses. I have to be up early tomorrow to get to the horse bazaar.’

Jarrard raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s a horse bazaar?’

‘Six miles out from Gwalior – life goes on, Rupert, mutiny or no mutiny.’

‘I guess so. Well, good luck, Jack.’ They shook hands. ‘If they hang you, I’ll be sure to report it as an injustice in the
Banner.
We Americans love to read about European injustice. It makes us feel we did the right thing in leaving. I’ll create such a furore they’ll have to reopen the case and you’ll end up getting a posthumous pardon.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Jack drily, ‘I appreciate your concern.’

Jack went back to his quarters, which were in a dingy corner of Gwalior Fort, near the kitchens. It was the small narrow holding room where they used to keep prisoners before taking them to the cells. It was just wide enough for a biscuit-thin horsehair mattress. The room was crawling with lice and he woke after being bitten viciously in several places. Deciding that outside was preferable to this stone coffin, Jack dragged his mattress out under the stars. He went to sleep suffering the smell of boiled vegetables which wafted over from the cookhouse.

Raktambar woke him just before dawn and the pair of them set off on their horses in the direction of the bazaar. The mounts Jack and his men had at present were heavy beasts previously owned by dragoons. Jack knew that if they were to be successful in hunting down guerrillas they would need small, fast creatures, used to the terrain and the climate, comfortable in their environment. It made sense that in India one should ride Indian ponies who were happy with the Indian climate and terrain.

When they arrived, Jack was at first stunned by the sight and sound of the bazaar. There were sellers and buyers from all over the region, and beyond. Tents were everywhere: tall and elegant, squat and dull. Most men were dressed soberly but some were in flamboyant colours and costumes denoting their nationality or local tribe. There was yelling and shouting from every corner, as men argued over prices, emphasizing their disgust at high suggestions and low counter-offers with wild gestures. Dozens of breeds of animal were on show, being trotted back and forth, limbs being inspected by expert hands, jaws being held open for the teeth to be studied, tails swishing, manes flying. A few – very few – horses had been dyed red or yellow ochre. And hanging heavy over the whole scene, the stink of horse manure and sweat.

Here no one was interested in mutiny – the only concern was in the qualities of four-legged beasts: their speed, their character, their style, their action. These, and whether the animals were hale and strong, not too advanced in years, and worth their salt. No buyer wanted to be swindled by a crook horse. Every vendor wanted more than the creature they were selling was actually worth.

Jack had been to Tattersalls in England, of course, but this bazaar had far more zest and colour.

Raktambar, on whom Jack was relying to get them properly mounted, did not purchase Indian horses for them. The Rajput chose Mongolians instead. He told Jack they were Karashahr animals from the Northern edge of the Takla Makan Desert.

‘They will suit our purposes, these animals,’ Raktambar told Jack, as the Rajput stroked the flank of a sturdy looking creature of about twelve or thirteen hands. These Karashahrs had powerful chests and necks, and large hook-shaped heads. Their legs looked strong and well-built. But they were not especially good-looking beasts, not to the classic English taste in any case, and Jack was rather disappointed in them.

‘What about those big ones over there?’ he suggested to Raktambar. ‘When I sit on a horse I want to feel I’m a bit above the world.’

The horses Jack pointed out were about sixteen or seventeen hands high. They had long black tails that swept to the ground and silken manes which fell to the point of the shoulder, rather like the Moroccan horses Jack had known. Their noble-looking heads were large and well-shaped, their eyes bulged slightly – though not in an unbecoming fashion – and they had long sleek necks with high pointed ears. With their short backs and round barrel chests they appeared always to be moving. Jack liked the idea that they had so much energy they could not stand still for a moment.

‘No, no, they are useless,’ replied Raktambar irritably. ‘You see they are shod with iron.’

‘And?’ remarked Jack, who would not have thought of riding a horse which was not shod. ‘Ours are not?’

‘No, of course not. This makes them more sure-footed. We will not be riding them on hard ground, so their hooves will not wear. ‘See, ours are well-ribbed, straight in the pastern!’

Jack stared at his mount’s leg, the point between the fetlock and the hoof, and wondered how this straightness benefited him as a rider. He was just as exasperated with Raktambar as the Indian appeared to be with him. Get any two men together, whatever their knowledge and background, and they will have different opinions on breeds of horse. Men will often cluster around the same woman hoping to make her their wife, while other ladies just as beautiful are ignored, but they will privately and even openly scorn each other’s choice of steed.

‘Well, what about those beautiful creatures over there – ours are rather drab, don’t you think?’

‘White is for royal personages,’ muttered Raktambar, ‘not for war – do you want your enemy to see you coming from miles away?’

‘Well, one of the chestnuts then?’

‘Very bad luck.’

‘That black beast?’

‘You will be riding your own shroud!’

Jack gave up. It seemed they were going to have the Karashahrs.

‘You’d better be right about these hairy beasts – they look a bit wild to me.’

‘They are like milk-fed lambs if you use them right.’

Raktambar also insisted they bought the right saddles before they left the noisy marketplace. The Karashahrs had been raised with padded wooden saddles on their backs and would not take to European saddles, the Rajput informed his leader. Everything had to be right or they would not perform in the proper manner.

‘I expect we shall have to feed them caviar,’ Jack said sarcastically, ‘washed down with champagne.’

‘No – butter balls and flour bricks.’

‘What?’ cried Jack, but Raktambar rode off leading a string of the Karashahrs, leaving Jack to follow with two of his own.

Jack very soon found his mount had an unusual gait, one he had never encountered before. The two offside legs went forward and backward at the same time – and the nearside legs did the same. It was rather as if the creature were walking on stilts, but Jack found to his surprise that it was a very smooth ride over the uneven ground. The padded saddle with its definite high back and front (creating a kind of slot for the rider) was certainly the right equipment, for Jack could tell that an English saddle would have him sliding this way and that, and his balance on the mount would be highly suspect. It was comfortable and the little horse moved with some style and pace.

When they got back to the barracks, where the other members of the team were waiting, Wynter was disparaging.

‘What the ‘ell’re them nags for?’

‘To ride, Wynter, to ride,’ said Jack.

King said, ‘I’ve told you before, Wynter – you do not address remarks to the officer directly. You speak to
me
first and I decide whether or not to pass on the information.’

The sergeant then stared at the mounts, which were indeed only ponies to Europeans used to tall horses. They were reasonably hairy beasts. One could tell that King was not over-enamoured with them either, but he refrained from criticism in front of the troops.

Jack was warming to the Karashahrs. He had cut one out for himself already. It was a dun-coloured gelding with a bright intelligent expression. He felt it was weighing him up as a rider, just as he was judging the creature as a mount. Jack liked the look of the animal, as horses went.

Raktambar asked, ‘What will you call him?’

‘Oh, I don’t name my horses,’ replied Jack airily. ‘They’re just transport, after all.’

The Rajput looked dreadfully shocked. ‘But, sahib, you
must
give your horse a name. How will he know who he is if you do not? Do you
never
name your horses?’

Jack felt uncomfortable. ‘No – not often. That is, if the horse is already named I don’t take it from him – but to my knowledge I don’t recall ever – oh, yes, once – but . . .’

‘Sahib,
this
horse you must give a name.’

‘Oh, yes,’ piped in the boy Sajan. ‘It is very bad luck not to give a horse a name. It would be like you not having a name, sahib. How would people know who you were?’

‘I am not a horse. Horses do not actually need names.’

‘But they do, they do,’ cried Raktambar. ‘Demons will enter his soul if he has no name to protect himself. A name is like a shield to ward off evil. If you do not name him,’ he continued darkly, ‘he will throw you over the edge of a cliff – or trample you when you turn your back. Now, what name will you give him?’

Jack was beaten. He looked at the horse. The horse stared back at him with enquiring eyes. Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know – Jane?’

‘Jane is the name of your wife,’ remarked King. ‘You can’t call your horse after your wife. Anyway, the horse is male.’

A flash of genius saved Jack.

‘In that case, I shall call him Cadiz – my uncle went there once and described the place to me. I was enthralled.’

‘Cadiz,’ murmured Raktambar. ‘Yes, that sounds very well. Very magical. Cadiz. He will like that name.’