The Cannons of Lucknow (13 page)

Alex paused, searching his memory, and then wrote on:

In return for the honourable surrender of our entrenchment, with the guns, ammunition, and treasure held therein, we were to be permitted free exit under arms, with sixty rounds of ammunition per man. Carriage was to be provided for the wounded, the women and children, and the sick, and boats, furnished with provisions, were to be waiting at the
ghat
, in which our safe passage to Allahabad was to be guaranteed under the Nana's seal and signature and on his most solemn oath.

He paused again, reading through what he had written.

Now came the hardest, most heartrending part of his report and this, he knew, he could not write impersonally or without emotion. What he must say came from the depths of bitterness and despair and could not be expressed in military phraseology, with dates and a long list of the names and regiments of those who had been betrayed and slaughtered, without pity, by a ruthless foe. The boats, with their hastily thatched canopies of tinder-dry straw, had been ready at the Suttee Chowra Ghat, as the Nana had promised … but their boatmen had also been ready to set the canopies alight and then make their escape, wading through the shallows and leaving their craft to wallow, rudderless, in the muddy water, when the hidden guns opened up on them with grape and canister. Mounted sowars had been ready, too, to spur their horses into the water and,
tulwars
drawn, hack at any who attempted to follow the boatmen's example and return to the bank, whilst behind them, crouched behind rocks and bushes on the slope, sepoy snipers had unleashed a hail of musket balls into the drifting boats.

Emmy had been one of the first to die in the smoke and confusion … Alex felt the hot sting of tears behind his lids, as a vision of her small, sweet face swam before his closed eyes. For a moment, he had held her to him, seeking vainly to staunch the blood which flowed from the wound in her breast, and then two of the sowars had ridden at him and he had been compelled to let her lifeless body slip from his grasp in order to defend himself against their assault. He had killed the
rissaldar
by dragging the man from his horse, emptied a pistol into the chest of another of his attackers at point-blank range and then—he could not remember how—he had reached Edward Vibart's boat, someone had dragged him on board, and they had floated out into deeper water to begin the three-day bid to escape from a pursuit which never slackened.

He seized pen and paper again and started frantically to write, the words flowing so fast that they were beyond his power to control or to halt. He lost all consciousness of time and of his surroundings and when, nearly an hour later, Lousada Barrow came stumping into the tent, he looked up, dazed, as if into the face of a stranger.

“How's it going, Alex? Have you nearly done?”

“I … yes, very nearly, I …” The past receded; Barrow's familiar face came properly into focus and Alex leaned back on his stool, his whole body soaked in perspiration. “The report's done, thanks to you—I just have a page or two to add covering my escape. Although I could probably describe that in a single line, since I remember very little about it. The rest, the siege, the massacre at the
ghat
, all that is absolutely clear in my mind and I've set it down as it happened. The names of casualties will take longer; they'll have to be listed separately.”

Barrow glanced at the pile of papers on the bed. He took off his cloak, letting it fall in a sodden heap at his feet, and crossed to the bed. “May I read it?”

“Of course you may,” Alex agreed readily. “Indeed, I'd be grateful if you would, Lou, because I'm afraid I … that is, I may have put one or two points a bit too strongly.”

“Too strongly for whom, pray? For Neill, perhaps?”

“For anyone who wasn't there.”

“Good! I'll just dry myself off a bit and then read it. You carry on with whatever's left to be done.” Lousada Barrow stripped off his jacket and shirt, towelled himself briskly, and, donning a dry shirt from his valise, picked up the pile of papers and went to lie full length on the bed.

“Those recruits are coming on quite well, Alex,” he observed. “And they're keen, all of them. There's a hell of a lot to be done with them yet but … your ridingschool's ready for you. At least you'll be able to keep them dry during some of their training.”

“Thanks, Lou. I'm grateful.”

“Consider it my contribution to your impossible task.” Lousada Barrow took out his cheroot case and offered it, smiling. “I've had to accede to a request from the
Rissaldar
, Nujeeb Khan, that he be permitted to accompany Charles Palliser. In the circumstances, I thought it politic to let him do so—Palliser's his sahib and he and the other native officers did remain true to their salt. Also, I don't want trouble with Palliser—he's a first-rate officer, with a temporary chip on his shoulder.”

“Of course,” Alex conceded. He struck a lucifer and held it to the tip of Barrow's cheroot. “What did you think of Cullmane?”

“A good man, handles horses well. Drink has been his trouble, I gather—he's been broken from corporal twice. Still, he'll get none here, if General Havelock can help it; all the liquor's been brought in from the city, I understand, and the Commissariat have it under heavy guard. The general has repeated his order that any British soldier caught plundering is to be hanged, in his uniform.”

“
Has
he? Good God!” Alex was astonished. “Do you think he'll carry out such a threat?”

Barrow's broad shoulders rose in a shrug. “He's capable of it. In Havelock's eyes drunkenness is a crime, and there's been a lot of looting, you know, despite the initial order … shops and derelict bungalows broken into in search of liquor, even one attempt to steal from the Commissariat train on the march. That was before you joined us, and the men who did it were driven nearly mad with thirst. They'd have stolen water, if there had been any to steal. Havelock had them flogged, as an example … the British soldiers, I mean.” He sighed. “The looters weren't all British but, as you know, by a strange anomaly, British soldiers can be flogged for breaches of discipline but Indian soldiers cannot. The Indians were sent back to Allahabad—they were some of Palliser's men and there was quite a bit of heartburning over the affair. Some heated words between our friend Charlie and one or two of the Queen's officers, which continued when the Irregulars were eventually found wanting and disarmed.”

“Yes, I see.” Alex returned to the table.

“That's all the news.” Lousada Barrow settled himself more comfortably on the bed and, puffing at his cheroot, started to read the closely written pages of the report.

Alex completed the account of his escape and began to list the names of those who had died in the boats, aware that the list must, of necessity, be incomplete. The faces were there, enshrined in his memory—the gaunt, unshaven faces of scarecrow soldiers in filthy, tattered uniforms, of sick old men and boys who had lost all semblance of youth, of terrified, uncomprehending children, and of women whom Cawnpore had robbed of beauty and femininity—but the names eluded him, as they had done before. There had been so many … 437 had left the entrenchment, to walk or be carried in carts and palanquins to the Suttee Chowra Ghat on the morning of 27th June, almost half wounded or sick. Better, perhaps, if he were to list those who, like himself, might by some miracle have escaped.

Included among the thirteen who left Major Vibart's boat with me in an attempt to drive off our pursuers were the following,” he wrote. “Lieutenants Mowbray Thomson and Henry Delafosse, 53rd Native Infantry; Sergeant John Grady and Privates Ryan, McNamee, and Murphy of H.M.'s 84th; Gunners Corkill and Sullivan of the Bengal Artillery; Privates Bannister, Wellington, Wooley, and Drummer Wood of H.M.'s 32nd. Sergeant Grady was shot down before we reached the temple in which we finally took refuge, at Sheorajpore. Six or seven men reached the river after we were driven from the temple, which the rebels had set on fire, but two or three of these were shot in the water. I believe that the others, if they were uninjured, may have found shelter with friendly villagers and would request that search be made for them or enquiries set in train.”

Alex read through what he had written and smothered a sigh. Was there really any hope for those who had eluded the hail of musket balls from the shore or, he asked himself bitterly, had they found every man's hand against them in the riverside villages when, spent from their exertions, they had attempted to drag themselves from the water? He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and started to list those who had been left—to die at the hands of the Nana's executioners, it now seemed—in Edward Vibart's leaking boat.

For the next half hour the silence was unbroken save for the drumming of rain on the tent's tautly stretched canvas and the metallic scratching of his pen. Lousada Barrow read the report with complete absorption, his cheroot forgotten and burning to ash between his fingers. When at last he came to the final page, he jumped up from the bed in a sudden burst of energy and, crossing to Alex's side, clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Merciful heaven, Alex, this … this is the most moving and the most appalling document I've ever read in my life!” He sounded shaken and his eyes, Alex saw, held the glint of tears. Recovering himself, he gestured to the sheets scattered about the table. “What are these—casualty lists?”

“The start of them, yes. They're not complete.”

“Never mind, just give me what you have. I'm taking this report to the general at once.”

“And Neill?” Alex questioned wryly, as he picked up the scattered sheets.

“Neill shall see it, have no fear on that score. And he shall read it, if I have to stand over him whilst he does. He owes you the public apology he promised you—dear God, if I had my way, he'd have to shout it from the housetops!” Barrow picked up his sodden cloak, wrapped it about him, and, with the report tucked carefully beneath it, drew back the tent flap.

“Just one more thing, Lou,” Alex said. He held out a folded slip of paper. “I'd be obliged if you would also give the general this … but only if my name is on the list of those he is recommending for the award of a Victoria Cross.”

“What the hell!” Barrow eyed the paper, frowning. “You're not asking for your name to be removed from the list, are you?”

Alex nodded, tight-lipped. “I've only Neill's word for it that my name is being put forward. But I feel, in the circumstances, that it would be best if it were not.”

Lousada Barrow was silent for a long moment. Then he pocketed the paper, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. “I'll see you on the other side of the river,” he said aloud. “And I think you're a damned fool!” Head down, he went splashing out into the monsoon rain, yelling impatiently for his
syce
.

A
LEX WAS
in the riding school soon after dawn next morning. He had been working with his recruits for nearly two hours and was about to lead a section out onto the open plain for more advanced training when, to his surprise, Major Stephenson made his appearance, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired sergeant. Both men were mounted, and the Fusiliers' Commanding Officer, after a courteous but somewhat tentative greeting, enquired whether another recruit would be acceptable.

“Not only acceptable but welcome, if he can ride,” Alex assured him without hesitation. “Are you offering us your sergeant, by any chance?”

Stephenson nodded. “He's anxious to volunteer, Colonel Sheridan, and I think you'll find him a pretty good horseman. He was in charge of General Neill's horses when the general was with the regiment, and he's just been promoted for outstanding conduct during the advance from Allahabad. He's an excellent N.C.O. and—er—the horse comes with him. It's one of the general's.”

Alex concealed his astonishment. James Neill, it seemed, was making a peace offering … and making it, surely, before he had had time to read the report on the siege which he had demanded in such offensive terms that night before last. Unless, of course, General Havelock had passed it on to him before himself perusing it.

“We'll be glad to accept both of them, major—thank you.” He turned to the new recruit. “Your name, Sergeant?”

“Mahoney, sir—Patrick Mahoney.”

Another Irishman, although his accent was slight, and young for his rank. Alex nodded approvingly, liking the man's alert, smiling blue eyes and general air of soldierly competence. He could use a good N.C.O.; without Fergusson and
Rissaldar
Nujeeb Khan, the entire burden of instruction and discipline fell on himself. He asked a few brisk questions and, receiving satisfactory answers to them, sent his new sergeant off with Cullmane to draw his arms and equipment. When he and Stephenson were alone, he said, with well-simulated casualness, “I take it the general knows that you're gifting his horse to us?”