Copyright © 2013 Paul Fraser Collard
The right of Paul Fraser Collard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Epub conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Jacket Illustration © CollaborationJS
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0028 0
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Book
About the Author
Also By Paul Fraser Collard
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Epilogue
Historical Note
India, 1855. Jack Lark barely survived the Battle of the Alma. As the brutal fight raged, he learned the true duty that came with the officer’s commission he’d taken. With this stolen life left lying on the Crimean battlefield, he grasps a chance to prove himself a leader once more. Pore Captain Danbury is dead, but Jack will travel to his new regiment in India, under his name.
Jack soon makes more enemies, but this time they’re on his own side. Exposed as a fraud, he’s rescued by the chaplain’s beautiful daughter, who has her own reasons to escape. They seek desperate refuge with the Maharajah of Sawadh, the charismatic leader whom the British Army must subdue. He sees Jack as a curiosity, but recognises a fellow military mind. In return for his safety, Jack must train the very army the British may soon have to fight . . .
Paul’s love of military history started at an early age. A childhood spent watching films like Waterloo and Zulu whilst reading Sharpe, Flashman and the occasional Commando comic, gave him a desir eto know more of the men who fought in the great wars of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. At school, Paul was determined to become an officer in the British Army and he succeeded in winning an Army Scholarship. However, Paul chose to give up his boyhood ambition and instead went into the finance industry. Paul still works in the City, and lives with his wife and three children in Kent.
By Paul Fraser Collard
The Scarlet Thief
The Maharajah’s General
To Mum and Dad
Second novels are supposed to be torrid affairs, written with great angst and with much gnashing of teeth. I am happy to say that was not the case for me, and the second instalment in Jack’s adventures was written with great relish and barely a moment of hesitation or anxiety.
Without doubt, the fact that there is a second book at all is down to the tireless efforts of my wonder-agent, David Headley, who never fails to greet my endless barrage of questions and fanciful ideas with anything other than a patient smile and perceptive advice. He is the one who made all this happen and I owe him a great deal indeed.
My editor at Headline, Flora Rees, has worked incredibly hard to make this story so much better than I could on my own. I am exceptionally fortunate to have been granted the help and the insight of such a professional and understanding editor for my work. Headline is a great organisation to write for and I am deeply indebted to the efforts of Flora, Ben, Emma, Tom and the rest of the team who have worked so very hard to make this book what it is today.
My family are what makes everything worthwhile. My three fabulous children, Lily, William and Emily, keep my feet firmly on the ground, no matter how grand my plans or ambitions and they have my love and my thanks for always. My mum and dad never fail to offer every support and my friends and family are a constant source of encouragement. To Dan, Mandy, Harry and Kayla all I can say is thank you for everything and roll on the next trip to Florida or France. It cannot come soon enough for me.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my father-in-law, Alan, for his support and friendship over the last twenty something years. I often bore him with rambling plot summaries and half-baked ideas but no matter how much I witter on he is always encouraging and supportive.
My work colleagues continue to keep me sane and I am forever grateful for their companionship. The camaraderie at work is the best thing about coming into the office every day and I would like to publically thank them for their backing. I must also thank my counterparts in the repo market for their supportive reaction to my attempts to become a writer. I am proud to know them all and to call so many friends.
As a debut novelist I was amazed at the warm welcome I received from fellow authors as well as from the many bloggers and reviewers who give up their time to read, and more importantly to review, new books coming to the market. They are a wonderful collection of individuals and I look forward to getting to know them better. Without doubt I owe them a large thank you.
Finally, to Debbie, thank you. Enough said.
bandook slang for a rifle or musket
caravanserai travellers’ resting place
Chillianwala Battle of Chillianwala, 13 January 1849
chummery officers living together sharing living expenses
dacoit bandit/thief
dak gharry post cart/small carriage pulled by horses
doli covered litter, sedan chair
durbar royal cour
t, public audience held by a native ruler
fakeer (fakir)monk, holy man
firangi derogatory term for a European
havildar native sergeant
howdah a covered seat usually with a canopy and railings positioned on the back of an elephant
huzoor sir, lord
ikrarnama written bond of allegiance to the British Crown
jezzail (jezail)type of native flintlock rifle
khansama housekeeper/steward
khoob! khoob!fine! fine!
khus-khus tatties grass screens used to cover windows
kurta long shirt or tunic
langoti loincloth
maidan open space in or near a town
nabob corruption of ‘nawab’ (Muslim term for senior official or governor), used by the British to describe wealthy European merchants or retired officials who had made their fortune in India
nautch girldancing girl
palki (palanquin) box-litter for travelling in, carried by servants
pandit (pundit)Hindu scholar, teacher
pagdi turban, cloth or scarf wrapped around a hat
pankha-wala servant operating a large cooling fan
prantara-durga a fortress built on the summit of a hill or mountain
rajkumar Son of the Maharajah
rajkumari Daughter of the Maharajah
rissaldar native cavalry officer equivalent to a captain
sahib master, lord, sir
sarkar (sirkar) Persian term for government – used to mean the British
sepoy native soldier serving in the East India Company’s army
shikari lead hunter
Stoczek Battle of Stoczek, 14 February 1830
syce groom
subedar native infantry officer equivalent to a captain
talwar curved native sword, similar to 1796 light cavalry sabre
thug follower of a religious sect, renowned for carrying out ritualistic murders (thuggee)
tiffin light meal or snack served at lunchtime
The British officer gripped the window frame tightly as the dak gharry lurched and scrabbled its way closer to the city of Bhundapur. He held fast until the wild pitching ceased, the action instinctive after so long incarcerated in a seemingly never-ending procession of carriages, palkis and dolis. His exhausting journey had taken weeks, and now, as he finally neared his destination, the officer felt the stirring of unease deep in his gut.
He tugged nervously on the hem of his scarlet shell jacket with the green facings of his new regiment before running his hand over his unfashionably short hair. He had dressed at the caravanserai where he had spent the night. Unlike so many of the British officers he eschewed any form of facial hair and that morning he had shaved closely, meticulous in his preparation, the ritual of preparing for the day ahead deeply ingrained. Now he was anxious that he looked travel-worn and unkempt, so he brushed at his uniform, doing his best to straighten out the inevitable creases and remove the most obvious specks of dirt.
He was reaching the end of the last leg of a journey that had started far away on the Crimean peninsula. Months of travel had led to this moment, to the last hours before he caught up with his fate. He patted the pocket of his scarlet coat, checking for the umpteenth time that his documents were still in place. They had brought him this far. The next few hours would tell if they would see him safely ensconced in his new home and in his place as a commissioned officer in one Her Majesty’s regiments.
The precious papers, now creased and worn, named the officer as Captain James Danbury of Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. A captain was a man of station and importance. One who would be expected to take his place in the British establishment that ruled a land so far from home.
The 24th’s newest officer sat back amidst the cushions and pillows of the dak and thought on what he knew of his new command. The 24th was a regular army regiment. It was stationed in India to bolster the forces of the East India Company, the mercantile company that administered and ruled the country in the name of the Queen. The East India Company ostensibly borrowed, and paid for, the regular troops who were spread amongst the three presidencies into which the country was divided.
Each presidency boasted its own army. The bulk of each force was made up of native infantry regiments composed of locally recruited soldiers, led by British officers. Alongside these native regiments were a number of European infantry battalions, whose ranks were filled by British and Irish recruits. The officers of both held commissions granted by the East India Company, rather than by the Queen. It led to a social distinction between the Queen’s officers in the regular army regiments, and those only holding a commission granted by the EIC. The officer had only been in the country for a few short weeks, but already he had learnt that snobbery was rife, the intricate layers of society guarded with a diligence and a jealousy that would shock even the snootiest London matriarch.
The man possessing the papers of Captain Danbury would take his place in the 24th’s hierarchy, assuming command of a company of redcoats. It was a precious responsibility, but not one with which he was unfamiliar. He had commanded a company in the Crimea, at the tumultuous battle at the Alma River. There he had learnt what it truly meant to lead men, the responsibility that came with the shiny gold buttons and being called ‘sir’. Being an officer was a position that few deserved and even fewer earned. Yet the man in the dak gharry had travelled thousands of miles for the opportunity to once again command the men so cruelly titled ‘the scum of the earth’, risking his life for the sake of a tattered parchment and the power it ordained. For Captain James Danbury was dead. His name, identity and uniform now belonged to Jack Lark, an impostor, who sat in the lurching dak gharry, his guts screwed tight with tension as he anxiously waited to discover if his newest identity would pass muster, or if he was simply being transported to denunciation and a cold, lonely dawn on the scaffold.
Jack cursed as the dak lurched, forcing him to grab at the seat opposite to avoid being thrown into an undignified heap on the floor. As he recovered his poise, he saw a small, dark-faced child capering in the scrubby field beside the road, clearly entranced by an imaginary game. Jack smiled as he watched the boy at play, envying him his freedom.
He looked past the boy, his attention taken by a forbidding tower on the skyline. It dominated the small village that clustered around its skirts, casting a long shadow across the sorry collection of drab mud and thatch houses. The tower was battered, a relic of a distant past. Yet there was a dignity to it, a grace that belied the pockmarked walls and broken stone. It had endured through the centuries, its lonely vigil immune to the machinations of men. It was a symbol of what had been, and Jack shivered as an uneasy chill ran down his spine. He hid his own past away, refusing to dwell on the dark memories that lurked in the corners of his mind, and forced himself to think of what was to come. He had journeyed far, chasing a future that was not his own. He was fast approaching the time when he would confront it and discover his fate.
Sujan saw the tiger, yet he felt no fear. The huge beast crept through the thick grass and would have passed by unnoticed were it not for the warrior who guarded his family’s goats so diligently.
Only the bravest could take up their spear and move silently towards the mighty hunter, whose power terrified lesser men, men who would run screaming in fear at the merest glimpse of his shadow. Sujan hefted his weapon, feeling the balance in its beautifully crafted shaft. The weight was reassuring in his hand, and his fingers curled around the lovingly polished wood, his fingertips caressing the intricate carvings that had taken the best craftsmen in the village days of toil to create. Slowly, patiently, he eased his way to where the huge animal had stopped, its mouth open as it tasted the air. He took no chances as he manoeuvred stealthily to free up a clean shot for his spear, taking his
time, his eyes never leaving his target.
Then the tiger saw him, and roared.
A weaker man would have fled, his precious goats left for the beast to devour. Yet Sujan rose fearlessly from his haunches, his muscles stretched tight as he pulled back his arm. With every ounce of his strength he flung his spear at the huge animal, an involuntary grunt forced from his lips. Driven by a skill only the mightiest of warriors possessed, the spear exploded through the grasses, the razor-sharp tip at its point tearing through the tiger’s powerful body, embedding itself in the animal’s heart, killing the fearful beast in an instant.
Seeing his foe struck down, Sujan leapt to his feet, his arms flung wide in celebration, his face creased in a triumphant scowl, his voice screeching in delight. The high-pitched wail scared an ancient vulture into reluctant flight from where it had watched the contest from a nearby rock, the sudden movement silencing the hero’s wild roars of victory.
Sujan walked forward, bending low to retrieve the thin, splintered stick, the only weapon his grandfather trusted him with to guard the ten flea-bitten goats in the family herd. With his hand scratching busily under his langoti, Sujan turned his back on the boulder he had slain. The fearsome tiger was nothing more dangerous than a moss-covered rock that had taken the small boy’s fancy as he idled away the long afternoon waiting for his grandfather to appear to help him drive the meagre herd back to their home on the far side of the village. At seven, Sujan was left alone for most of the day with just the sinewy goats for company and his eager imagination for entertainment.
The small boy pulled aside his loincloth, carelessly emptying his bladder into a thorny bush as he tried to conjure up another game to while away the lonely tedium of another hour. He looked around sharply as he heard the sound of a dak, his thin stream of urine meandering across the dusty soil as he turned.
His face twisted with hatred as he saw the dak gharry bouncing its way along the trunk road to Bhundapur. He caught a glimpse of a white face staring in his direction – another firangi officer on his way to join the foreigners’ camp outside the city. The officer lifted a hand in greeting, his cold grey stare disconcerting even from a distance.
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