by Peter Watt
Ian walked amongst his exhausted soldiers, sharing a joke here and there, asking about their health. He always received the same answer: they could go on. He sat down in a small copse of scrubby trees with a small fire to heat his water for his ration of tea. He was joined by Conan, who squatted down beside him.
‘How do you think the men are holding up?’ Ian asked, swishing the tea leaves into the boiling water with a twig.
‘They would follow the Colonial into hell if he asked them,’ Conan replied, producing his battered metal cup to share Ian’s tea. ‘The lads think that serving under you means they cannot be killed.’
‘If only that were true,’ Ian said wearily. ‘I have orders that we strike tents just before midnight. Try to get a couple of hours’ sleep.’
Conan rose with his mug of tea and walked into the night, leaving Ian alone with his thoughts. Ian was aware that his company was always singled out for the most dangerous missions, and wondered how his men would react if they knew that. He felt they were misguided to put so much faith in him to keep them alive. As he sipped his brew, he reflected on the seemingly hopeless task ahead when they eventually clashed with the superior Indian force.
At 11 pm, the column struck their tents and marched in under the light of the full moon, until about an hour later they were challenged by the picquets of the force they had come to strengthen.
This did not mean any rest for Ian’s company, however, as the two small forces continued marching until the sun rose the next morning, when the order was to take an overdue rest before they encountered the enemy.
*
The blast of an enemy cannon shattered the morning.
Meals being prepared were quickly discarded as the order, ‘To arms!’ was yelled down the lines. Soldiers scrambled to snatch up their Enfield rifles and ammunition as senior NCOs harried them into battle formations. Ian grabbed his sword and revolver, falling in with his company. He ensured that he was standing conspicuously, his sword drawn, amongst the men in the first rank.
To his front Ian could see the dust rising as a large force of Indian cavalry charged their position. Conan was moving through the ranks, chiding some for not having percussion caps on their rifles, or not being properly dressed for battle. He knew his role was to act as Ian’s guard dog in battle – and he did his job well.
‘Sir, there are so many of the buggers,’ a frightened young new recruit said.
‘Then you can’t miss when you fire, Private Cummings,’ Ian said. He knew the name of every man in his company, and that alone seemed to settle the soldier down.
The sudden charge of enemy cavalry came to a confused halt, no doubt because they only now realised they were facing five regiments of infantry and eight artillery guns drawn up in perfect order. The Indian mutineers were well aware of how deadly the British army was on the battlefield when they were organised for combat, and they instinctively slowed in the attack.
Ian could feel the tightness in his stomach that he experienced before every battle. He was careful that his men not discern the slight tremble of his hand as he held his sword aloft. He knew they looked to him with blind faith in his ability to keep them alive and he did not want them to lose confidence just as they stepped into battle.
The Indian cavalry fell back and a couple of cannon were pushed forward, along with the Indian infantry.
‘Steady, lads!’ Conan roared down the ranks as they witnessed the smoke erupt from the mouth of the artillery pieces, and seconds later heard the sound. It was important that the British formations display a vision of resolute red-coated ranks to the Indian mutineers.
A junior officer from the task force HQ hurried to Ian. ‘Sir, the general requests your company to occupy a copse to our front.’
Ian acknowledged the order and passed it on to his NCOs, who hurriedly arranged his company of riflemen to advance to the copse of trees Ian had indicated. Ian knew that they were being pushed forward to act as skirmishers, using the Enfield’s range to inflict casualties on the enemy before they could come into range of the Indian smooth-bore muskets. Ian’s company had only just arrived in position in the stand of trees and deployed into fighting formation when the Indian infantry charged their position.
Ian gave the order and a volley of well-aimed Minié bullets struck down the forward troops charging towards them in the trees. Ian trusted that his hours of training his men would lead them to fire and reload quickly. The first volley was followed by disciplined volleys, pouring the deadly and devastating bullets into the waves of advancing enemy infantry.
Gun smoke filled the still air like a London fog, partially concealing the plain to their front. Ian roared encouragement as the withering fire continued. Private Cummings was only feet away and Ian observed how calmly he fired and reloaded the long rifled musket. If the enemy came close enough, Ian knew he would have to give the order to fix bayonets, although this made loading the rifles harder. For the moment the well-aimed rifle fire was doing the job of slowing down the attack.
Above the constant loud crash of rifles, Ian could hear the blast of artillery not far away and knew it was British guns. The smoke continued to billow around the copse, obscuring the enemy to their front, but it was now Ian’s job to defend the gunners from the mutineers as the artillery shells tore huge gaps in their ranks.
Conan was beside Ian, holding spare ramrods, and young Private Cummings fired off a shot. In his haste to do so he had left the ramrod in the barrel and it flew away like a spear.
‘That will come out of your pay, Private Cummings,’ Conan growled in the young soldier’s ear. ‘Take one of these.’ Conan thrust the spare ramrod into the soldier’s hand, who accepted it sheepishly.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Cummings said, cursing himself for his mistake.
Swamps either side of the hard ground to their front channelled the attackers, while the British cavalry used the strips of firm earth to advance.
Ian did not know how long his men continued to fire but suspected it was for at least ten minutes. He could see that the longer range of the Enfield rifled muskets was devastating the advancing infantry, and he sensed that the smaller British force was getting the upper hand. Thirst, smoke, noise and heat were Ian’s impressions of the battle.
The artillery guns were being limbered and Ian saw them dragged further forward onto the firmer areas of the nearby swampy ground, to be unlimbered and put into action closer to the enemy forces, firing at almost point-blank range. They particularly targeted the brass and iron cannons of the mutineers, putting three of the Indian guns out of action.
Part of the enemy force was situated in a small village behind a cluster of garden enclosures made of mud bricks. The British artillery rounds smashed through the walls, killing and wounding anyone in their lethal path.
Ian noticed that the attacking infantry had withered away in the face of the deadly volleys of his riflemen, and he ordered a ceasefire to conserve valuable powder and shot. As he gave the order another junior staff officer appeared.
‘Sir, the general has ordered an advance to the front,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Your company is to reinforce Major Renaud on a hill he has captured to our right.’ Ian could see the British redcoats on the hill indicated by the staff officer.
‘Tell the general we will move to Major Renaud’s position now,’ Ian replied, and the officer saluted and dashed back to HQ.
Ian turned to Conan. ‘Sarn’t Major, form up the company to advance to that hill over there,’ he said, and Conan immediately issued the order. Platoon commanders and their senior NCOs expertly fell in and hurried forward. Ian observed the exhaustion of his men in the heat of the day. The fact that they had had little sleep the night before and no breakfast only exacerbated the situation. Still, they reached the hill held by Major Renaud, and Ian reported his arrival.
‘Sir, what are your orders?’
‘Good sh
ow, Captain Forbes,’ the weary major replied, wiping his brow with the back of his cuff. ‘We will have to advance through a swamp down there.’
Ian followed the major’s outstretched hand.
‘Company, advance to the front!’ Ian bellowed, and the men stepped forward off the hillock into the swampy ground, moving towards the village of mud huts.
They were only yards from the first of the small walls when Ian saw the Indian artillery gun being wheeled into a position to fire point blank at his and Major Renaud’s troops. Acting quickly, he drew his pistol and sprinted towards the crew of three Indians manning the gun. He was firing at such close range that his bullets took the lives of two of the enemy serving the gun. But the third man desperately reached to fire the upper hole on the cannon. Ian knew that the gun was probably filled with canister shot, an artillery round that acted like a giant shotgun for close-range defence. He leapt the wall with a strength he did not know he possessed, and before the taper could touch the hole, he had driven his sword into the man’s chest. He fell and Ian fell on top of him. When Ian attempted to scramble to his feet, he was aware that Conan was beside him.
‘You orright?’ the sergeant major asked, helping Ian to his feet. ‘Bloody stupid thing to do.’
‘There was no time,’ Ian gasped. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His company were pouring over the low walls and advancing towards the village.
‘Fix bayonets!’ Conan roared and the men paused to slide the long knife-like bayonets onto the end of their rifles before continuing the advance. All around them lay the dead and dying Indian mutineers. As Ian’s company advanced they were able to clear the town of fleeing enemy without sustaining any further battle casualties. Ian noticed some of his men collapse, though, the victims of heat exhaustion rather than enemy action. But his priority was to clear the town, and he could not spare any soldiers to tend the sick.
Soon they were through the town, driving the enemy before them.
Ian ensured his men were in their battle formations when they broke out onto the plain on the other side of the village. It was then that he saw a large formation of Indian cavalry make a determined charge against their own outnumbered cavalry on the company’s flank. He was acutely aware that should the Indian mutineers succeed, they could then attack along the flank of his own force and, at such close range, obliterate them. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the British artillerymen had been able to bring up a couple of guns and were already setting them up to fire into the Indian formation.
Ian was weak from the physical effort of battle and his throat was parched. Despite this, he bellowed his order.
‘Riflemen, cavalry to the right. Form ranks!’
Above the din of the scattered firing and the triumphant shouts of the enemy, Ian’s order carried, and at the same time the two cannons roared their defiance into the men and horses about to attack their own weakened cavalry.
The volley of rifle fire rippled along the rifles of the company line, bringing down both horses and men. The combined artillery and rifle fire proved to be too much for the Indian cavalry who only mere moments earlier had sensed an easy victory. In disarray, they turned and fled the battlefield. Off to their left, Ian could see the swirling tartan skirts of the Scottish infantry regiment break through. He knew then that they had done the impossible and won the day.
But at what cost?
Twenty-four
Already the familiar sickly sweet stench of death rose in the hot air from the already fly-covered bloated enemy bodies scattered about the battlefield. Ian barely noticed it anymore.
‘I don’t know how we survived,’ Conan said, surveying the carnage of the battlefield. ‘They had us outnumbered.’
‘But we had the Enfield,’ Ian said.
‘Never in my wildest nightmares back home could I have ever imagined I would be standing here today wearing a bloody British red coat. My Irish ancestors will not welcome me to heaven when I die.’
‘Put it this way, Sarn’t Major, we don’t get to choose where we are born – but we have a choice in where we die in the business of soldiering for the Queen.’
‘That is not very cheerful.’ Conan smiled under his thick beard. ‘I am hoping to depart for the next world in a soft bed with Molly holding my hand.’
‘Maybe that will happen,’ Ian said. ‘In the meantime, I need you to make a rollcall to see if any of our lads have been killed or wounded.’
‘Sah,’ Conan replied and marched away. When he returned with a long face Ian knew they had taken casualties.
‘Two dead, sir,’ he said. ‘Struck down by the sun. I heard from an officer that we lost twelve all up to the effects of the sun – and none from enemy action. I also heard this is the first successful encounter with the mutineers.’
‘Not for the twelve poor souls who will not be going home,’ Ian replied.
‘What is the name of this place?’ Conan asked, his pencil poised to record their geographic location.
‘Futtehpore,’ Ian replied. ‘But I doubt any will remember the name – except the men who were here today.’
The twelve soldiers who had succumbed to heatstroke were buried on the battlefield with military honours. Their graves were marked, but in time they would disappear forever in the Indian earth.
*
Alice Campbell stood gazing at the massive walls of the city they besieged. The sun was setting and she reflected on the moment. She was so far from the genteel salons of London and the gossip of her friends. Here she stood with the blood of her patients on her worn dress. The past was little more than a ghost and she knew she could never go back to being the protected and pampered young woman she had once been. In that moment she felt an affinity with Miss Florence Nightingale, who had ministered to the wounded of the Crimean War.
‘Well, my dear,’ Peter said, approaching his wife. ‘I have some good news. A trader came through camp and for sixteen rupees I was able to purchase a dozen bottles of tar bund beer, and also a bottle of Harvey’s Sauce, as well as a good selection of tinned foods. We shall dine in luxury tonight.’
Peter placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders and stood for the moment also gazing at the massive and seemingly impregnable Delhi walls. ‘A penny for your thoughts?’
‘What becomes of us after this dreadful war is over?’ she sighed. ‘I do not desire to return to London and the family home.’
‘We will do whatever it is you desire,’ Peter said, gently turning his wife to face him.
‘I wish to travel with you to see the world,’ Alice said. ‘I would like to see your Canada – and even the Australian colonies where my Uncle George has a sheep farm.’
‘Is that all?’ Peter asked with a twisted smile.
‘No, I wish to travel to Africa, and to Egypt after that.’
‘Well, Canada is achievable, but you must remember that I am a simple surgeon on a simple surgeon’s income.’
‘You are not a simple surgeon,’ Alice said. ‘I have been beside you when so many poor souls have been saved by your God-given skills.’
‘But I have never shot a tiger.’ Peter laughed, realising it had been a long time since he had laughed. ‘Maybe we could hunt lion in Africa.’
‘No, I will never again kill such a beautiful and noble creature. Sometimes the spirit of the tiger haunts my dreams,’ Alice said sadly. ‘After all that travel, I will be content to find some part of this world to settle down with my country doctor and raise a family.’
Peter did not reply but gazed at the great walls of the city which harboured a vast army of men ready to kill them at the first opportunity. He knew that they were still outnumbered and outgunned by the Indian mutineers, although word had arrived in the camp that General Havelock was having success against the mutineers just south-west of their current location. For now, all they had was the stark reality of the present.
At least that promised a feast for dinner. For the moment, that was enough.
*
Charles Forbes was frustrated and angry. He forced himself not to pace in the private investigator’s office but stood with his hands behind his back, glaring out a window at the smog hanging over the city.
‘I am afraid at this stage, Mr Forbes, that our man has disappeared. If it is any consolation, I believe he and his companion are still in the city, as my contacts on the docks have not reported them attempting to leave London.’
‘What if my brother is cunning enough to depart the country from another port?’ Charles asked, turning towards Field.
‘Ah, to prevent that happening you would have to be prepared to pay a lot more,’ Field said. ‘Your money would need to buy eyes and ears in every port in the British Isles.’
‘I am prepared to pay,’ Charles said.
‘Then I will be able to put a watch on Scotland and Wales – as well as all our ports in England,’ Field said.
‘But if they identify my brother, how could you detain him if he attempts to leave from, say, a Scottish port?’
‘I still have many contacts in my old job,’ Field said. ‘After all, this appears to be a case of fraud and the local constabulary can be enlisted to arrest the man you say is your brother. I have prepared posters from the photograph you gave me to be distributed across the country – with a cash reward for any information that locates him. Your brother’s face is now familiar to many police constables and members of the public.’
For the first time, Charles smiled. ‘I can see that my money will be well spent,’ he said. ‘There will be a generous bonus if you succeed.’
‘I always do, Mr Forbes,’ Field said. ‘I always do.’
