Rogue Officer (8 page)

Jack Crossman and his men rode in the vanguard of the column. Wynter’s mount made him feel very important. In the infantry regiments only majors and above rode horses, so he felt he was rather superior to the lowly lieutenants and captains of foot. Every so often he was brought down to earth by the man he called ‘that bloody mapper’. Sergeant King did not like this new member of the team. Quite rightly he saw in Wynter a slacker, a waster, a conniving scoundrel, and the sergeant was not going to stand idly by while the army was abused. Once he even clipped Wynter behind the ear with the flat of his hand, when the private dropped back too far behind, which incensed his victim.

‘I’ve been through a war, I have,’ cried Wynter, out of earshot of the bloody mapper. ‘I’m entitled to respect. I’ve been a sergeant, oh, yes, I’ve been there. An’ I was tough and fair, but not a bloody bully, like that sod of a sergeant. I treated my men with some respect . . .’

Sajan did not like hearing his father insulted. ‘You are a bad man, sahib,’ said the youngster, waving a finger in Wynter’s face. ‘If you were one of my soldiers, I would have you whipped.’

‘Oh, you would, would you? An’ who the bloody hell are you?’ said Wynter, snorting indignantly. ‘Bloody kids tellin’ me what to do now. What are you doin’ up ’ere with us, anyways? You’ll be lucky if you don’t get my boot up your backside, you little
kaffir
.’

‘You are a very ignorant man, sir. It is you who are the
kaffir
, not me. A
kaffir
is a Christian, which is you.’

Wynter tried to rescue his self-esteem with a word he had heard that morning from an Irish corporal. ‘I meant to say
khalassi
.’

Sajan laughed. ‘That means camp follower. Yes, that is precisely what I am, so it is no insult.’

‘Where’d you get that horse from, anyway? You shouldn’t be up here with the men. You should be back with the women in the baggage train. You should be in the nursery van.’

‘My father gave me this horse. The same man you insulted. It will be necessary for my honour to slit your throat while you are sleeping if you continue to abuse him. I was raised by the
Thagi.
They taught me how to kill a man who is sleeping soundly, as you did last night, when you were full of brandy.’ Sajan nodded his sage young head. ‘Think about that, sir, while you are snoring like a pig in your bed.’

Wynter eyed the young Indian boy with some alarm. It was true he had to sleep within the vicinity of this child of Satan and he believed that kids out here did not give a damn for their masters and betters. He thought that Sajan would poison the hand that fed him if he felt he could get away with it.

Wynter rode up to Gwilliams. ‘What’s a
Thagi
?’ he asked.

‘We call ’em thugs,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘They’re a roadside cult that prey on travellers. They throttle their victims or cut their throats. You don’t want to run into any of those bastards. They’ve got no respect for the likes of you or me. Cut you off in your prime, they will.’

Wynter went back to Sajan. ‘Look, kid, you don’t understand. In the army it’s right and proper for a private to curse his sergeant. It’s accepted. That’s the way we let off steam, you see. Sergeants know this and they don’t take offence, unless it’s to their face, of course, then they call it insolence. I don’t mean no harm, really. It’s just the British way.’

Sajan was having none of it. ‘Sahib, you are a stinking fish.’

Wynter began to get angry. ‘Now, look . . .’

‘You will stay away from me,’ said Sajan, spurring his horse.

The private was left to fume. He felt the whole world was against him. He could not even voice his disgust about sergeants now! That wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right. It was against tradition. It was almost enough to make a man go back to his regiment and do some proper soldiering. But then, when he thought about it, he liked being a member of a special group. He liked to feel important. And he was good at it. Hadn’t he saved the lieutenant’s life at least once back there in the Crimea? He was good at this job and he wasn’t going to be chased out of it by a ten-year-old punkah wallah. If King got killed, which he well might during this campaign, he would wallop that kid until he begged for mercy. But then Crossman and Gwilliams would have to be out of the way too, and that bloody Rajput, Raktambar. The whole world was against him, that was the fact of the matter.

The combined force reached Faridpur on the fourth of May. Faridpur was only a day’s march from Bareilly. Here Campbell paused to take stock. Gwilliams and Jack rode out that evening to inspect the defences of the rather loosely built town. They found that Khan Bahadur Khan had set up solid defences outside the pale of the dwellings. The guns set up on the sandbanks were still in the same neat positions. The cavalry were in their place on the flanks, while the second line of infantry lay back in the protection of the building, within the suburbs of the scattered township. Jack returned to make his report and then prepared his own men for the coming fight.

‘This is not going to be easy,’ he told King, Gwilliams, Raktambar and Wynter. ‘I have General Campbell’s permission for us to remain on horseback, but we must stay out of the way of the infantry, and of course the cavalry. This is entirely unprecedented so don’t shame me by abusing the privilege. We’re to keep watch for any breakaway factions and note which way they run. Pursue them if you feel it necessary, but obviously don’t catch up with them or engage them, because you’ll be unprotected. We’re battlefield observers, there to keep account of any retreat. These rebel leaders have a habit of vanishing once their troops look like being overrun. This time it’s hoped that observers like us can monitor the situation and keep track of which way Khan goes, should he try to skip.’

‘I will observe too,’ said Sajan. ‘I have good eyes.’

‘You do indeed have excellent eyes,’ replied Jack, ‘but I’m afraid you will be in the rear with the baggage train, young man. We need no distractions.’

‘Sahib,’ protested the youngster, ‘I am almost a man!’

‘Almost, but not quite.’ He tried to soften the blow. ‘Should your father fall in the coming fight, you must be alive to avenge him.’

‘In order to do that I must see who kills him,’ argued Sajan. ‘I must be there in the front to bear witness.’

King said firmly, ‘You will stay at the rear. You have been ordered by your commanding officer. It is not a soldier’s duty to argue, but to obey. Isn’t that so, Raktambar?’

‘It is indeed so. Boy, do as you’re told.’

Sajan hung his head in a sulk, but knew he was going to get nowhere in this argument, so dropped it.

Early the following morning, before the heat of the day gripped windpipes in its burning fingers, General Sir Colin Campbell’s forces marched on Bareilly. The advance parties encountered cavalry but by six o’clock Campbell’s force was formed into two lines ready for the attack. There were of course the Highland regiments at the fore, supported by Punjab Rifles and a Baluch battalion. Horse artillery and cavalry were naturally guarding the flanks, but there was a battery in the centre. The remainder of the force formed the second line, protecting the siege-train and baggage detail, where Sajan was located with other camp followers.

At seven o’clock General Campbell gave the order to advance. He was a general who was highly thought of by his troops. Time and time again he had proved his worth against superior odds and had come out victorious. His men knew his reputation, many had served under him in other battles, and they were entirely confident of victory. His courage was renowned, having stood in front of the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders and issuing that now immortal command when faced by the Russian cavalry at Balaclava: ‘There is no retreat from here, men! You must die where you stand!’

Artillery fire answered the advance, the round shot falling amongst the British troops, but not seriously impeding them. On seeing the resolute line still coming towards them, the rebels abandoned their guns and fell back to the edge of the town. The British, Sikh, Baluch and Punjabi skirmishers now splashed through the stream and over the bridges. Artillery began to pound the enemy defences. While this bombardment continued, the whole of the British force crossed the stream and lined up ready to take the town.

Jack was at that moment acting as a courier, having been grabbed by a senior officer on his way past, and asked to carry a message to a colonel in the front line. Just as he reached the colonel, there was a counter-attack by Khan’s forces. Almost a thousand matchlock men from within the confines of the dwellings opened fire with a tremendous volley, killing Sikh and British skirmishers. At the same time there was a ferocious charge made by over three hundred Rohilla Ghazis: fanatical holy warriors who cared nothing for death so long as they killed at least one of the enemy, ensuring their entry into heaven. The Ghazis carried small round shields and wielded only tulwar swords, but their attack was made in white-hot fury and was difficult to stop. The 93rd closed ranks and bayoneted many of them. The 42nd were a little slower to react to these fierce warriors in green turbans and cummerbunds, their sacred gold rings bearing Koran texts flashing in the sunlight. The attackers threw themselves full length forward, underneath the line of bayonets, and slashed at the legs of the British soldiers.

Jack was close to the front line when three of the Ghazis broke through, slashing this way and that, cutting at their enemy with their razor-sharp sabres. Soldiers of the Company were harvested like wheatstalks. Some just panicked and ran, and were hacked in the back. Then more Ghazis breached the line. Heads rolled. Skulls were split in two. Legs and arms lopped like sapling trees. The Ghazis were terrifying, with their mad rolling eyes and their high-pitched screams. Their sword strokes came in flurries, slashing this way and that.

‘
Bismallah
,’ a big Ghazi screamed, leaping from ground level to the back of Jack Crossman’s horse. ‘
Allah! Din! Din!
’

Instinctively, Jack’s crippled arm went up to protect his head and he managed to ward off a death blow. The Ghazi grabbed his collar and the lieutenant was wrenched backwards. Jack and his assailant fell from the horse’s back on to the hard-baked ground. Jack felt the wind knocked from his body, but he continued to struggle with his attacker, trying to tangle himself with the Ghazi’s flailing arms to prevent him from using his weapon. He felt a stinging blow above his eye, rendered by the man’s heavy gold ring, and instantly realized the Ghazi had lost his sword in the fall. He punched back with his good hand: a blow which merely glanced off the man’s shoulder. They rolled in the dust, the Ghazi frantic to kill him and Jack becoming a punchbag for the blows that rained on his head and body.

The Ghazi was a blizzard of fierce energy, as lithe and as slippery as a cat, impossible to stop or contain except by dealing a mortal blow. He was kicking with bare feet at Jack’s groin and thighs, scratching with his long nails. Suddenly there was a knife in the Ghazi’s right hand. Jack managed to grip the man’s wrist. This left him punching with his stump, rather than with a fist, which was most ineffectual. He was vaguely aware that all around him others were having to deal with Ghazis creating havoc despite their slim numbers. They were frenetic in their attacks, as determined as the ancient berserkers they resembled. Even bullets, unless in the heart or head, only seemed to stun them for a second. On they came, cutting down infantry with their tulwars, dragging officers from their horses.

While Jack was still struggling blindly with his persistent Ghazi, feet were treading all over him and his attacker. Bare feet and booted feet. Above them rifle butts were thudding into bodies. Bayonets were piercing flesh. Swords were chopping away limbs. Blood sprayed on both men. Finally Jack managed to get an armlock on the Ghazi’s throat. He tried to throttle his opponent, tried to break his neck. His right arm would have been stronger, would have done the job, but he dare not release his adversary’s wrist which wielded the dagger. Finally his own loose horse, whinnying and stamping, terrified out of its mind by the writhing mass of bodies and the noise, trampled upon both of them, causing Jack to loosen his grip. The Ghazi squirmed out from under and was again on top. Now the dagger was poised to plunge into Jack’s face. On the Ghazi’s features was a twisted expression of utter triumph.

Jack had no idea what happened next. He realized he was being showered with warm sticky blood. The grasp upon his throat had suddenly relaxed and when he looked up his assailant was gone. It seemed the Ghazi had simply vanished into thin air. Jack sat up. The furore was still gushing and foaming around him but many of the Ghazis now lay dead on the ground. There was a headless corpse next to him. Blood was spurting from the neck on to the ground. A short distance from the corpse was a head.

A hand helped him to his feet. It belonged to Raktambar. In the Rajput’s other hand was the tulwar dropped by the Ghazi.

‘You beheaded him?’ said Jack, dazed.

‘I did my duty,’ replied Raktambar. ‘I am your protector. I took his head from his shoulders with his own weapon.’ He now tossed the tulwar on to the corpse. ‘It is done.’

Jack could tell the deed was tasteless to Raktambar. Yet again the man had saved his life. Once upon a time Jack would have said he needed no one to protect him. But this was a land where men had to watch each other’s backs in order to survive at all. They were two soldiers, he and Raktambar, who needed to be a unit in themselves. Each had saved the life of the other half-a-dozen times in this war in which – under normal circumstances – they should be on different sides. But this was a war in a land where the rulers had frequently come from outside: a land continually conquered by foreigners, from Macedonian Greeks to Samerkandian Moguls to clerks from a London-based trading company. A vast land that had known no single ruler, where tribal and religious loyalties were fuel for wars.

As Jack led his horse away from the battle, berating the beast for panicking, Captain Deighnton rode by at a gallop and looked down on him.