by Peter Watt
‘Look!’ Peter said, pointing to a gateway in the city wall. Scott swung around in the saddle to see a large column of Indian cavalry accompanied by infantry flowing across the plain towards the camp.
‘Go!’ Scott shouted as he dug his stirrups into his mount, forcing it into an urgent gallop towards the fortified lines defending the village of white army tents. The mutineers were mounting a large-scale attack on the camp, and Peter knew where he must be when the fighting commenced. Within minutes he flung himself from his horse inside the British camp. Both horse and rider were bathed in sweat from the hard ride under a fierce sun.
Already Peter could hear the roar of the defending British cannons pouring canister shot and high explosive into the waves of approaching enemy infantry.
Peter ran to a tent, flinging open the flap to see that Alice was already laying out his surgical instruments and ordering servants to fetch buckets of water, anticipating the flow of wounded from the battlefield.
‘The Sikhs and Gurkhas have taken up their posts,’ she said to Peter as he stripped away his officer’s jacket and grabbed an apron that had been washed but still bore the stains of blood from previous surgeries. This had not been the first attack on their camp, and each time the casualties on their side whittled down their numbers. Reinforcements had to come soon or the mutineers would surely wipe them out.
Peter quickly surveyed his instruments and medicines, assessing what he had to work with. He glanced up at his wife who, although grim-faced, appeared to be as composed and ready as he. She was now his main nurse and assistant during surgery, for which she showed a genuine flair and interest. It was a shame, he felt, that women were not cut out to be surgeons. It was simply a law of nature, he explained to Alice, but privately he doubted his own convictions when he watched his wife stitching and dressing wounds. He admitted to himself that he could not have done better.
The crackle of rifled muskets and the blast of cannons filled the air around the camp. Within ten minutes the first of their patients was carried to them on a stretcher. He was a British captain whose face had been smashed by a musket ball. Blood streamed down his jacket as he was sat up on the operating table, once a stout wooden dining table.
Peter examined the officer’s face but could only see an entry wound when he splashed water over the injury. He could see that the ball had smashed out the man’s teeth.
‘I think he has swallowed the ball,’ Alice said, peering over Peter’s shoulder.
‘I think you are right,’ he said, turning to Alice. ‘Could you attend to his wound?’
Alice took the officer by the elbow, assisting him to a corner of the tent just as another casualty was littered in by two Sikh soldiers. This soldier had a stomach wound and was groaning in agony as he was laid out on the table. And then another wounded man was brought in, and Alice calmly began to organise that the wounded be laid out on stretchers in front of the tent. She went from one to the next with soothing words of comfort, a canteen of water, and an eye for who most needed her husband’s surgical skills next. Those with lesser wounds she tended to with disinfectant and bandages.
The day drew on until eventually the roar of cannons and musketry died down as the mutineers withdrew from the battlefield. Outside Peter’s surgery tent, amputated arms and legs had piled up and were covered by a swarm of fat feasting flies. The soldiers with the stomach wounds were inoperable and Peter used his meagre supply of opiates to ease their agony until death took them.
The sun was setting on the dusty horizon when Peter and Alice sat, exhausted and covered in drying blood, on a bench outside the surgical tent. Soldiers had been recruited to minister to the needs of the wounded and to carry away the bodies of the dead.
Peter took Alice’s hand as they gazed with vacant eyes at the peaceful stars above. ‘It will not always be like this,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘One day we will return to a sane life in London.’
Alice chose not to reply. She felt Peter would not understand that she felt exhilarated by her role helping the wounded. This experience was so far removed from the tedious garden parties and balls that would have made up her social calendar had she been at home in England. Here, what she did was as important as the role of any man, and it gave her life new meaning. Alice was in no hurry to return to her uneventful life in London.
Seventeen
‘That man who just left, Father Ogilvie, do you know him?’ Charles asked.
‘A Mr Wilford,’ Ogilvie replied. ‘A nice gentleman on a holiday visiting our parish. It was interesting that he knew of the window dedicated to your brother, Herbert.’
Charles took in the information and swore under his breath. Sir Archibald looked at his son with reprobation.
‘What is it, Charles?’ he asked.
‘Did you not see the man who just departed?’ Charles asked his father.
‘No, I was talking to Father Ogilvie.’
‘Well, if you had, you might have been looking at the Samuel we both once knew,’ Charles said.
‘Samuel is with the army in India,’ Sir Archibald answered, confused at Charles’ statement.
Charles thought hard for a moment. ‘What if the man you think of as Samuel is an imposter, someone who has conspired with the true Samuel to take his place in the army? Samuel always hated being in the military. What if he has found someone to take his place and complete his ten years of service so that he is able to claim his share of the Forbes estate?’
‘Don’t be foolish, Charles. What man would take Samuel’s place and risk his life in such a manner? No, it is ridiculous. Besides, when Samuel returned to London it was obvious that he knew too much about the family’s secrets to be an imposter. It would take a very intelligent man to be able to fool me.’
‘You know, I have heard from officers in the regiment that the men call Captain Forbes “the Colonial”. What if Samuel met a man with a striking resemblance to him whilst in New South Wales? It is possible that they made a pact to swap places. I say that the man you think is Samuel is an imposter, and that the real Samuel was just here.’
‘It sounds preposterous to me,’ Archibald said with a frown. ‘You will need to provide evidence. Go and meet with the man who just left.’
‘I will do that,’ Charles said, and turned to Father Ogilvie. ‘Did Mr Wilford say where he was staying in the village?’
‘I am afraid not,’ Ogilvie replied. ‘There is only the one tavern in the village, so my guess is that is where you will find him.’
‘Father, I will take our carriage and go immediately to the tavern.’
Without waiting for a reply, Charles strode to the carriage, instructing the driver to take him to the village tavern and leaving a befuddled Sir Archibald in his wake.
*
‘There’s no Mr Wilford staying here, Mr Forbes,’ the tavern keeper answered. ‘He might be staying at the boarding house on the northern side of the village, though.’
Charles hurried back to the carriage and directed the driver to the boarding house, where the landlady told him that a Mr Wilford and his travelling companion had just fifteen minutes ago paid their bill and left. She did not know where they were going and Charles guessed it was probably London. He knew there was no sense in pursuing them – in this parish there were too many byroads heavily covered with trees that could easily hide a small carriage.
Charles decided he must return immediately to London and make contact again with Mr Field. The truth about Captain Forbes was about to be uncovered and so, too, what Charles was convinced was his brother’s fraudulent attempt to claim his inheritance. He smiled grimly as he returned to his coach. He was on the verge of exposing an ingenious plot to defraud the family fortune.
*
Samuel and James, both wrung out after their headlong flight from the village, arrived in Dover and went straight to the wharf where their ship was docked. To their
horror there was no sign of it. The ship had sailed!
When they asked around the wharves they were informed that the vessel’s repairs had been completed and it had sailed some hours earlier.
‘What are we to do?’ James asked in despair.
‘We have no choice but to continue to London and make contact with Mr Solomon,’ Samuel said, staring at the vacant space where their ticket to safety had been waiting for them.
‘I had a bad feeling circumstances would not be in our favour when you chose to visit your brother’s memorial,’ James said bitterly. ‘Luck has not been on our side.’
‘I am sorry, dear James,’ Samuel said sadly. ‘I suppose my stubbornness has brought us to this place. I should say that you warned me it would.’
‘Too late for recriminations,’ James replied in a resigned tone. ‘Pray that Mr Solomon is disposed to assist us once again.’
*
It was at Ceylon that Ian’s company was transferred to another steamship. His men boarded, mystified as to why they were being separated from the regiment. Only Ian, Conan and Lieutenants Woods and Sinclair knew the reason as their ship raised its anchors and steamed alone on a northerly route along the east coast of India.
The ship, disguised as a merchant vessel, was not heavily armed but did carry a detachment of Royal Marines. As the ship approached the delta of West Bengal, Ian felt it was time to gather his company of riflemen on deck to brief them on their mission. It was a viciously hot, cloudless day.
‘Men, no doubt you have been wondering why you were chosen to join this ship whilst the regiment remained behind to travel to Calcutta. I can tell you now that Colonel Jenkins has chosen us for a mission to save an Indian prince of strategic importance to England. Because of the sensitive nature of what we will be doing, it has remained a secret until now. Very soon, the ship will anchor off the coast and you will be further briefed on your role in this operation. For the moment you remain with the ship under the command of Mr Woods. That is all I can tell you at present, but be assured, we will bring honour to the regiment and the Queen.’
One of the soldiers in the ranks raised his voice and called, ‘Three cheers for the Colonial and the Queen.’
The cheers erupted and Ian was touched by his men’s sentiments. He noted that cheers had not been offered for Colonel Jenkins.
‘Sarn’t Major, fall out the parade,’ Ian ordered and Conan stepped forward, saluted and turned to dismiss the infantrymen back to their allocated duties.
Ian made his way to the bridge to find the ship’s captain, a burly Scotsman with a gingery beard and ruddy complexion. Ian saluted the superior rank of the British naval captain.
‘Well, Captain Forbes, as per orders from the Admiralty, we will drop anchor tonight about a mile from the coast. I have been able to secure all the stores you require for your mission. I will arrange to have them taken to your cabin.’
The captain ordered a young naval sailor to carry the bundle of garments to Ian’s cabin, and Conan and Lieutenant Sinclair met him there.
‘Gentlemen,’ Ian said, pulling apart the bundle of native Indian clothing and revealing six revolvers and three wicked-looking American Bowie knives. ‘This is our uniform and our weapons for the task ahead.’
Conan lifted one of the heavy Colt 1851 Navy revolvers from the bundle of clothing. ‘I have always wanted one of these,’ he said with pleasure.
‘You get to have two of the Colts each,’ Ian said. ‘They are ideal for what we have to do.’
The two men picked through the clothing and dressed with advice from Lieutenant Sinclair, who was something of an authority on Indian customs, clothing, culture and language – at least from an academic point of view. Each man was able to conceal the weapons he carried, as well as the ammunition required. They then applied dark polish to their faces and hands, the only flesh exposed when the clothing was adjusted. To all intents and purposes, and if no one looked too closely, they could pass as Bengali locals. Ian had ensured that he had a good supply of rupees with him in a leather pouch.
A knock on the door of the cabin alerted Ian and his team of two that it was time to commence the dangerous mission. The Indian prince was somewhere ashore in a village not far from the coast. All Ian had was a map drawn up by a member of Outram’s staff who was familiar with the area, and intelligence that was six weeks out of date. For all Ian knew, the prince and his family had been discovered by the mutineers and murdered.
They followed a marine officer above decks and were pleased to see that heavy storm clouds had masked the half-moon. Six marines sat in a landing boat waiting to ferry their passengers ashore. Ian, Conan and Lieutenant Sinclair clambered over the side on a rope ladder to join the men who would row them towards the faint lights of the coastal village a mile away. It was just after midnight and Ian experienced both exhilaration and fear for what lay ahead.
The tide was running in and the clinker-built wooden landing boat made good progress through a shallow surf, beaching on a muddy bank covered by scrub trees. In the distance they could see a fishing hut with a lantern burning in the window.
‘Good luck, chaps,’ the marine officer whispered. ‘Better you than me.’ With that, the marines hauled their boat off the mudflat, turning to row back to the ship which would withdraw out to sea beyond the horizon.
A soft wind blew through the long jagged grasses of the mudflats, and when the gentle slap of oars on water disappeared from hearing Ian realised just how alone they were in a hostile environment where wits and daring alone would have to carry the day.
‘We take a chance and make contact with the natives in that hut ahead of us,’ Ian said softly. ‘Are there any questions?’ Both men shook their heads, and the three trudged across the sticky mudflat until they came within paces of the small hut with its single door and window. Crouching behind a rack of fishing nets, Ian gave his last directions.
‘We enter without displaying our pistols,’ he said softly. ‘Mr Sinclair will inform those inside that we mean them no harm, and request that they allow us to remain during the day. I will creep up and see who is in the hut.’
Ian made his way to the window to peer inside. Conan could see that the young officer was trembling and he recognised the fear.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ he said. ‘Captain Forbes and I have done this sort of thing before in the Crimea. The captain gets us safe home every time.’
Harry Sinclair could see Ian signal to them to approach the hut. The three stepped inside, startling a man sitting on the earthen floor mending a net. Beside him lay a woman under a blanket. Ian raised his finger to his lips to signal silence to the terrified man, now frozen with fear. Harry Sinclair said something that seemed to confuse the man, and his wife woke with a start, staring with petrified dark eyes at the three strangers.
Harry repeated his words and the man moved his head to indicate that he did not understand him. Frustrated, Harry turned to Ian.
‘I’m sorry sir, but this man must speak a dialect I am not familiar with,’ he apologised.
‘That is not your fault, Mr Sinclair. I think I have the universal language solution,’ Ian said and reached under his baggy clothing to produce the leather purse. He retrieved a generous handful of rupees, offering them to the man, whose expression was a mixture of puzzlement and avarice. ‘For you,’ Ian said, pressing the coins into the man’s hand. The universal language appeared to work as they could see some of the fear evaporate and composure return.
The man turned to his wife and said something.
‘I think I understood some of his words,’ Harry said triumphantly. ‘I think he said we are crazy bandits who give away money rather than steal it!’
‘See if you can tell them that we mean them no harm – unless they tell others that we are here. If they betray us, they will be killed,’ Ian said.
Harry was able to get the message
across and the man knelt, grabbing Harry’s hands and babbling his gratitude.
Satisfied, Ian turned to Conan and Harry. ‘We remain inside this hut until night comes again, and when it does, we set out on the next leg of our journey. According to the orders I received, we should meet a European contact in the next village who appears to have some protection against the local mutineers.’
While they waited out the day, the man left the hut and returned with water and food for his uninvited guests, reassuring Harry that he had informed no one of their presence.
The men spent the day cleaning their revolvers, ensuring that the powder loaded in the chambers was dry and that the fulminate percussion caps were secured on the nipples at the rear of each loaded chamber.
Ian had learned from the Bengali fisherman that the next leg of the mission would take them across a plain past a few scattered mud huts to a small village. They would travel that night knowing time was critical as the naval ship would return in forty-eight hours, sending a boat ashore under the cover of darkness to pick them up from the mudflats.
Evening was coming to the tropics, and as Ian prepared to move out he was suddenly alert to the noise of a party of men moving in their direction. Ian peeked out through a crack in the wall and felt his heart skip a beat. He could see a group of ten well-armed men moving towards them. Had they been betrayed?
Eighteen
‘What do we do, sir?’ Harry asked.
‘This reminds me of an incident when we were in the Crimea,’ Conan said with a grim smile, unholstering his pistols.
‘Ask the fisherman if he knows who the men are, Mr Sinclair,’ Ian said.
