The Maharajah's General (8 page)

Isabel crouched behind the boulder, transfixed by the gory spectacle going on no more than two dozen yards from where she hid. For as long as she could remember she had read about battle, captivated by the dry, urbane accounts of campaigns and set-piece war written by generals and commanders. She had devoured every book she could find, from Livy to Wellington, yet she had never before contemplated the brutality that she saw unfurling before her. The dusty, emotionless words did nothing to convey the dreadful struggle in which men hacked and gouged in a desperate fight to kill or be killed. There was no glory in war, and the sordid, squalid sight she was witnessing left her struggling to control the waves of nausea that lurched through her body.

The black-robed leader of the enemy horde detached himself from the fighting. Even across the yards of scrub she felt his eyes bore into her. Her throat constricted in fear as he eased his charger round, turning its head to face where she hid, before kicking the mount into motion, riding straight for her. He never once let his eyes leave her, staring into her terrified gaze as he rode down the slope.

‘Danbury!’ The scream tore from her throat as the heavily armoured figure slid from his horse a few yards in front of her. The man was huge, a figure from a nightmare, his robes the colour of night, his black eyes pitiless. He was a vision of hell manifest on earth.

Agile despite his bulk, the huge warrior landed gently on his feet. Isabel saw the purpose in his action. Fear surged through her, a visceral wave of animal terror more powerful than anything she had ever known. It burst out of her like a river in flood breaching its banks.

‘Danbury! Danbury!’ She shrieked his name in panic, her voice shrill.

The black-robed figure was unmoved, no trace of emotion visible behind the beard that smothered his face. He lifted a single gauntleted hand, holding it towards her as if inviting her to dance. Her fear reasserting itself, she stood mute, powerless to resist.

‘Come.’ The man’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and Isabel struggled to hear the single command over the cacophony of the fight that carried on regardless of her plight. The fingers encased in thick black leather gloves flexed, beckoning her to him.

She felt her body jerk into motion as if tugged forward by an invisible chain. She thought nothing of the silver revolver she still held in her left hand, the idea of resisting never once entering her mind. Her movements felt ponderous, as if the ground was cloying mud rather than dusty soil. Her eyes fixed on the face that observed her progress with serenity and she reached out her free hand, demurely offering it as if she were shyly accepting a suitor’s request for a dance at a dowager’s ball.

She laid her small hand in the centre of the leather gauntlet and surrendered.

The ambushers swarmed forward, surrounding the small group of sepoys, forcing Jack back into the fight. He flicked his sword out, deflecting a richly jewelled talwar that reached for his eyes, then brought his own blade around in a glittering arc to parry an ancient bayonet-tipped musket that was thrust at his stomach. More blades reached forward, the enemy’s courage growing with every second as the wild horde sensed the weakness in the tiring sepoys.

The first of Jack’s men went down, a pig-sticking spear finding its way past his jabbing bayonet. The leaf-shaped head slid through the thick scarlet coat and into the sepoy’s flesh, the fiendish shriek of triumph emitted by its owner the last sound the dying soldier would ever hear. The sight of the first red-coated devil falling to the ground galvanised the rest of the mob. Those too cunning, or too fearful, to have been at the forefront of the attack sensed the change, belatedly pushing forward, their desire to fight kindled now that victory seemed certain.

As one the mob closed on the small band of soldiers that had fought with such courage. Like a pack of wild dogs they flung themselves into the fight, each keen to wet their blade in the sepoys’ blood, eager for the gory proof of their valour.

The surviving members of the escort did not stand a chance. The enemy swarmed around them, countless blades whirling, attacks coming from all sides. Yet still the sepoys fought on, stamping their feet forward, thrusting their bayonets at the bodies that pressed against them, their leaden arms and aching muscles forced to continue the fight, the soldiers of the foreign Queen refusing to submit meekly to their fate.

Above the cacophony of the fight, Jack heard Isabel scream his assumed name. He shoved a naked fanatic backwards with his shoulder, using the point of his sword to tear a fist-sized hole in the man’s grease-covered stomach, then forced his way out of the vicious melee, his blunted sword bludgeoning those of the ambushers seeking to attack the rear of the sepoys’ fragile formation. He had no concept of how long they had fought, the passage of time meaningless in the grotesque struggle where a single heartbeat could pass between life and death. All he knew was that Isabel’s terrified scream was a call for help he had to heed.

Free of the fight, Jack ran hard, ignoring the spasm of pain in the pit of his spine and the dreadful ache in his sword arm, focusing his attention on the tall figure that loomed over Isabel’s tiny frame. At any second he expected the man to turn, to react to the single foolish redcoat charging towards him. But the black-robed giant stayed facing Isabel, his back left undefended and exposed. It gave Jack an opportunity, and he strained every tired sinew as he strove to reach Isabel and somehow drag her to safety.

The ground passed slowly under his boots, the uneven surface twisting each footfall. He was certain his legs would give way at any moment, buckling under the strain of racing down the slope to send him tumbling and falling to the floor. Yet somehow he kept his footing, and he counted off the seconds as he hurtled towards the black-robed figure. Yard by yard, step by step he closed the gap between them, no longer hearing the attackers’ shouts of victory or the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He screamed as he charged, the final few yards disappearing in a sudden rush as he flung himself at the huge man, releasing his tension into a blow aimed at the back of the bandit’s neck. It was a vicious attack, driven by all of Jack’s anger at the futility of the desperate fight. His sword vibrated in his hand as it sliced through the air, the aching muscles in his forearm already bracing for the moment of impact, for the shock of the blade ripping into the enemy leader’s flesh.

The talwar came out of nowhere. The black-robed figure spun round, his richly decorated blade whispering upwards with the speed of a striking cobra, the huge two-handed sword blocking the blow that had been a heartbeat away from ending his life.

The counterattack smashed Jack’s sword to one side, violently deflecting his blade away. Jack was immediately thrown completely off balance and he tumbled to the floor, hitting the stony ground with a bone-jarring thump. As he fell, the talwar flickered through the air, missing his head by a fraction of an inch.

Jack threw himself to one side as soon as he hit the ground, using the momentum of his fall to roll away from his enemy, ignoring the stabs of agony as his body scraped across the rocky soil. Once, twice the talwar stabbed downwards, missing him by no more than a hair’s breadth, the attacks coming at him so fast that he could do nothing but throw himself down the slope and hope that he could avoid the deadly blade.

His wild tumble gained momentum, the incline of the slope adding speed to his movement. He sensed another attack, the flash of the talwar slicing through the air inches from his nose. The blade went wide; it gave Jack the slightest of openings and he pushed with his legs, scrabbling for purchase. He scrambled to his feet with as much speed as he could muster, and with a dull clang his notched and pitted sword met the dreadful talwar. His desperate parry battered the blade to one side, saving him moments before his enemy’s sword would have been thrust into his guts.

The fierce surge of elation at once again being able to fight was short-lived. The black-robed figure stepped forward, unleashing a flurry of attacks that had Jack sliding backwards as he struggled to counter the pace of his enemy’s movements. The talwar sliced through the air, each slash followed within a heartbeat by another, a relentless salvo that drove him back down the slope, his sword arm ringing as he blocked each blow as best he could.

‘For pity’s sake, shoot him,’ he screamed at Isabel.

She gave no sign of having heard him. The small silver revolver was still clutched in her left hand, but it hung uselessly by her side, the terrified girl giving no thought to the weapon that she had brandished with such defiance only a short time before.

Jack twisted to one side, his attempt to get Isabel’s attention momentarily distracting him and nearly letting the black-robed swordsman’s blade slip past his faltering defence. Again and again he parried the fast-moving talwar. He was forced to forget Isabel as he fought for his life, every ounce of his strength needed to counter the terrifying rain of blows that came at him one after another, each driven by a strength he could barely match.

The black-robed figure started to chant as he fought. Underscored by the metallic clash of swords, the deep voice rumbled in a hypnotic rhythm. Jack did his best to pay no heed to the words, but they unsettled him nonetheless, the menace in the foreign phrases clear.

With a loud cry the chant stopped. The black-robed figure paused for no more than a single heartbeat before his sword whirled through the air, slashing towards Jack in a blow of immense power.

Jack thrust his battered sabre forward. His speed saved him, the two blades coming together a fraction of a second before the talwar would have crashed into his unprotected head. Yet the noise of the impact was wrong. With a dull thud, Jack’s sabre shattered, the cheap steel cleaved in half by the power of the bandit leader’s attack. He could only stare in horror as the top half of his weapon spun away, leaving only the shattered stump in his hand.

Jack’s stubborn defence was ended, leaving him unarmed and defenceless. He felt the shadow of death loom over him as the black-robed figure pulled back his sword arm, preparing the thrust that Jack could no longer counter. He looked into his enemy’s face and knew he was about to die.

Isabel had watched as if paralysed as the black-robed figure flayed mercilessly at the British officer. At any moment she expected the fast-moving talwar to break through Danbury’s desperate defence, his faltering defiance certain to be no match for the power of his assailant’s wild assault.

Somehow, though, Danbury stayed alive, his sabre meeting every blow. Isabel had never seen such ferocity. The two men fought at a frightening pace, their blades moving with such speed that she could barely even see the dreadful steel as it flashed through the air. She did not hear Danbury call to her. It was only when the dark-robed figure started to chant that she felt herself return to her senses. She felt Danbury begin to waver, the sinister incantation unsettling the British captain.

‘Danbury!’ She screamed his name as the chant came to its terrifying conclusion, but her voice was lost in the black-robed figure’s cry and she could only watch in horror as his sword slashed towards Danbury with a speed and power that seemed impossible to counter.

The sound of the British officer’s sword snapping reached her in the moments after the dreadful chant came to an end. She saw the appalled look on Danbury’s face as he realised he was about to die. She ran forward, careless of the enemy horde that had begun to swarm down the slope. Her only thought was to help, to try to save the red-coated officer before he was struck down in front of her eyes.

‘Danbury! Catch!’ She drew back her arm, tossing the beleaguered captain a lifeline, praying that she had acted in time to save him.

The silver metal of the revolver flashed once in the sun as Isabel’s throw sent it spinning through the air. Jack flung the stump of his broken sword towards the black-robed figure, freeing his hands of the now useless weapon. He snatched at the tiny revolver, snapping it from the air, the sharp metal stinging his hand. Without pause he brought his arm around, pointing the gun straight at the face of the man about to kill him. His thumb slid over the back of the finely crafted weapon, cocking the hammer, readying it to fire.

The heavily bearded face loomed over the simple sight at the end of the revolver’s barrel. At such close range Jack knew he could not miss, and he felt a surge of savage joy as he pulled the trigger.

Instead of the crash of gunpowder igniting, there was nothing but an impotent click. Isabel’s precious revolver had failed to fire.

The black-robed figure sheathed his sword. He took a pace backwards before disdainfully turning away from the man who had come so close to killing him.

Jack dropped the useless pistol, letting it fall from his hand as he felt defeat swamp him. He stood mute, watching the savage mob race down the slope towards him. The bandits circled around, their blades threatening, but none was willing to be the first to strike. Their leader flicked a gauntleted hand in Jack’s direction, a curt word of command putting an end to the impasse. A swarthy figure took a pace forward, hefting a heavy club. Without a word he slammed it into the back of Jack’s head, bludgeoning him to the ground.

The darkness swallowed his soul. Jack felt its cold embrace, its touch as delicate and as jealous as a lover’s. He did not fight it as once he had. Instead he welcomed it, submitting to it with the grace of a maiden bride on her marriage bed. There was no fear in giving in. Just relief. He faced the blackness and willed it to take him.

But the darkness rejected him, thrusting him away, throwing him towards the distant light. Jack screamed inwardly with frustration as he felt the icy tendrils release him, forcing him to return to the place that terrified him most.

Jack opened his eyes. At first it was hard to tell if they were truly open or not. He could feel a hard stone floor under his body, its dampness soaking into his clothes. He could smell mould and decay, the stench of unwashed bodies and animal waste thick in his nostrils. He tasted the staleness of the air, the cold, dead flavour of the dark.

‘Danbury?’

The voice startled him. His name was spoken in no more than a whisper but there was no mistaking its owner. Isabel Youngsummers had sensed him stirring and called to him, summoning him back to the world he had so dearly wished to leave.

‘Danbury, are you awake?’

Jack’s cramped and aching muscles protested as he started to move. He forced himself to sit, finally coming truly alive, belatedly starting to take stock of his surroundings.

There was little for his eyes to focus on. The room had been hacked into rock, the walls still bearing the marks of the simple tools that had been used to gouge and scrape the space from the hard ground. A single door was shut tight, the small window in its centre barred with thick metal columns, each crusted with rust. The window was the only source of light, a single torch that burnt just outside the door casting forbidding shadows into the depths of the fetid space.

‘Danbury! Thank God.’ Isabel’s relief was clear. ‘We thought you might be dead.’

‘You may soon wish that were the case.’

Jack heard the second voice and turned his head, his neck complaining as it jarred with the movement. The Reverend Youngsummers sat slumped against the wall to his right.

‘It is good to see you, Danbury, but I fear you may have preferred it were you not to have woken.’ Youngsummers sobbed as he finished speaking, an anguished wail escaping his thick lips. ‘We are doomed.’

‘Papa!’ Isabel’s hands lifted to her face, hiding the sight of her father’s distress.

‘Dear God, why are you doing this to me?’ Youngsummers pushed himself forward and on to his knees. He raised his arms to the ceiling as he beseeched his God, lamenting his bitter fate. ‘Why submit me to this torture? Why have you forsaken your loyal servant? Why?’ He fell silent, his head bowed so that his thick chin rested on his chest, his corpulent frame rocking with the motion of his sobs.

‘What happened?’ Jack spoke for the first time, his voice thick with phlegm. He spat hard, careless of the look of disgust on the Reverend’s tear-streaked face.

Youngsummers slumped back into his former position, exhausted by his pitiful plea.

‘They’ve kept us alive because of the colour of our skin.’ The clergyman spoke in the exhausted voice of a dying man. ‘So that they can torture us.’

‘Don’t be such a fool, Papa,’ Isabel snapped. Her eyes flashed with the same look of defiance Jack had seen when they were first ambushed. ‘They’ve kept us alive because they believe we have value. They will think to ransom us. We cannot lose hope.’

‘Hope!’ Youngsummers wailed the word. ‘Do you not see, daughter? God has forsaken me. He has given me up to the godless. He has abandoned me.’

‘Papa! Do not speak like that. We are alive.’

‘Isabel is right.’ Jack spoke, silencing father and daughter. They both turned to face him, looking to him for guidance. ‘They have kept us alive because we have value to them. What happened to the men?’

‘Dead. All dead. They butchered them.’ Youngsummers relished the words, finding strength in the suffering of others.

‘They died fighting,’ Isabel corrected her father. ‘They fought hard. As did you, Danbury.’

Jack took no pleasure in hearing Isabel’s praise. ‘We lost. We should have fought harder.’

‘That is a foolish thing to say. Against so many there was nothing more you could do.’

Jack’s brow furrowed as he looked at Isabel. ‘I am not so sure.’

‘So what will happen to us?’ asked Isabel, her voice timid. She sounded very much like the frightened little girl she really was.

‘They will kill us!’ Youngsummers interrupted. ‘These blackguards have no qualms. They are godless scum and they will slaughter us without a thought.’

‘That’s enough.’ Jack injected some snap into his tone. It was the voice of an officer, one that was used to being obeyed.

Youngsummers opened his mouth to object before a look at the hard eyes of the British captain silenced him.

‘We are alive,’ Jack continued. ‘If they wanted us dead they would have killed us on the spot. I doubt these fellows know much of patience. Isabel is right. They will try to ransom us.’

Isabel nodded as she listened intently to his words. Her father was not so calm.

‘You know nothing of these people, least of all what they will do to us.’ Youngsummers looked at his daughter, licking his lips nervously before leaning closer to Jack. ‘I fear for my daughter’s chastity.’ The words were said in a whisper, a furtive look on the Reverend’s face.

‘They will have to kill me first.’

Youngsummers snorted his derision at Jack’s bold claim. ‘I am sure they would not find that so difficult, Danbury. How can you speak of fighting?’

Jack grinned. ‘Because I’m redcoat. It’s what we do.’

‘Spoken like a fool.’ Youngsummers’ jowls creased in irritation.

‘Be careful who you call a fool, Reverend.’

Youngsummers raised a trembling finger and pointed it towards Jack’s heart. ‘You, sir, you are a fool if you think your precious pride matters one bit. I call you a fool, for you speak foolish words.’

Jack felt a spark of temper but he bit his tongue. He had learnt to curb his emotion when confronted by bombastic buffoons.

The Reverend Youngsummers knew no such forbearance. ‘You are the reason we are here! It is you who is to blame for our incarceration at the hands of those godless barbarians.’ His fear added fuel to his tongue. ‘You were ordered to protect us. And you failed, Danbury. You failed! I face a martyr’s death because you could not obey that simple instruction! It is your fault. Yours! You are a disgrace!’

Youngsummers fell silent, his rage spent. His pudgy hands smothered his face as the tears came, his body rocking back and forth, his distress overwhelming him.

Isabel had sat in shocked silence as her father broke down. Her whey-coloured face revealed her anguish, her self-control eroding when she heard the horror in her father’s voice, his certainty that they faced death taking a grip on her heart.

Jack smiled as he looked at her, yet she simply stared back at him, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Your father is right. I am a disgrace.’ He spoke in the even tones of a father reading a night-time story to calm his child’s fear of the darkness, his words intended to calm and soothe. ‘But I meant what I said. I shall die trying to protect you. I promise.’

He offered the promise willingly and he meant every word. He did not fear death. It was life that terrified him.