The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  Despite the discomfort, he had to admit that riding the horse borrowed from Proudfoot’s extensive stables was preferable to the strength-sapping march the men of his escort had endured. Proudfoot had insisted that the Youngsummers should have protection from the bandits and dacoits that plagued the more remote corners of his domain. The ten men from Dutton’s native infantry contingent had marched in silence; the only words Jack had heard from any of them were the commands issued by the havildar who led them.

  The sepoys wore a uniform similar to that of their British counterparts. The famous red jacket was the same, the five rows of braid across the front and around the cuffs as smart as anything seen in the barracks of England. In their working dress, the native infantrymen wore baggy white knee-length breeches in place of the more usual dark blue trousers, and whilst the British infantry still wore the traditional shako that had been a hallmark of the redcoat for centuries, the native troops wore a soft white Kilmarnock cap, much more suited to the heat of the relentless Indian sun. Instead of the thick leather stock worn around the neck to force the wearer to adopt a soldierly bearing, the native soldiers wore beads or went bare-necked, much to the frustration of the British redcoats, whose uniforms bore no adaptation for the harsh climate they were forced to endure.

  Jack nodded at the havildar as the escort marched past. Major Dutton had been right to be proud of his men, and Jack found himself hoping that those of his own company would conduct themselves in the same professional and soldierly manner.

  ‘Slow down, my dear. This is no time for a race.’ Reverend Youngsummers admonished his daughter for her fast pace as he brought up the rear of the party, his exhausted horse lathered in sweat from carrying its hefty burden.

  ‘Come now, Papa. We are nearly there.’ Isabel fairly shone with delight, her joy at being away from the confines of cantonment life obvious. ‘Then we can rest and enjoy the picnic I have prepared.’

  The idea of a rest and food had the desired effect, and Youngsummers spurred his horse hard so that he could catch up with his daughter. ‘Tell me, did you bring some of those devilled eggs that Mrs Dutton has been promising me for the last month?’

  ‘I brought a dozen, Papa. Enough even for you.’ Isabel laughed as she teased her father, throwing her head back so that the soft pale blue scarf she had wrapped over her hair fell back. She laughed again, revelling in her freedom. Jack did his best not to stare as she released her glorious curls from the shackles of their clips and ties.

  The small party ground its way up the hill, entering a narrow defile. On either side the ground rose sharply, the dusty, scree slope too steep for easy passage, and Jack felt a flicker of unease as he saw his small command compressed into the narrow space.

  He shook off the disquiet. It was too much of a relief to be stationary to spoil the moment with doubts, and he took a minute to enjoy simply sitting still. He had heard tales of picnic parties, of well-to-do people taking a dozen servants and moving the contents of a small house into the depths of the English countryside to enjoy a view or to sit by a river and read poetry. He had never imagined attending one himself, least of all on a dusty, scorching hillside thousands of miles from home.

  He waited patiently for the last of the five porters who laboured to carry the myriad items Isabel had deemed essential to the success of her simple expedition, before reluctantly urging his horse back into motion, grimacing as the movement jarred his aching back.

  A single shot rang out, the sharp retort echoing around the hillside. The bullet struck a rock no more than two yards away from the sepoys’ right-hand file. A dozen more followed, the air filled with the bowel-loosening snap of bullets whipping past.

  Any thoughts of a quiet picnic disappeared in a flash of musket fire. They were under attack.

  Isabel screamed.

  Jack slipped from the saddle, trying to make sense out of the confusion. There was another fusillade of bullets, sharp puffs of dust flung high into the air as the deadly missiles struck the ground all around the terrified party.

  ‘Form skirmish line!’ Jack’s voice cracked as he shouted the first order, his mouth dry. He flinched as a bullet scored past his head, the first spasm of fear coursing through his veins.

  More shots rang out, yet already they were becoming ragged, the sporadic rate of fire betraying a lack of discipline. Jack had no idea who was firing on them, but at least it was clear that the ambushers were not trained soldiers. Yet the desultory fire had stopped the party in its tracks, pinning them in place.

  The sound of a bullet striking flesh caught Jack’s attention. It was a horrible sound, like a butcher slamming a carcass on to his chopping block, and one he had heard too many times in the Crimea not to recognise.

  He saw at once where the sound had come from. Isabel’s horse was twisting on the spot as blood poured from a deep wound to its shoulder, blackening its mottled brown coat. Before she could free her feet from the stirrups, the maddened beast jerked hard to the left, flinging its rider off as the pain of the wound drove it wild.

  Isabel’s slight frame was thrown to the ground, the jarring impact clearly audible from where Jack slipped and skidded towards her. More shots crashed down around them as he threw himself to his knees, instinctively screening her prone body where she lay face down in the dust. He reached out his hand, clasping the stunned girl around the shoulder. He could feel her muscles quiver under his touch, the softness of her flesh beneath his fingers sending a sudden, violent surge of lust through his body. He was shocked by the power of the unexpected rush of emotions, feelings he had believed scoured from his soul.

  Isabel looked up, her eyes glazed. She lifted her head from the ground, trying to push herself up. A thin trickle of blood flowed down her cheek, the bright trail of red a vivid contrast against the ghostly pallor of her face.

  ‘Stay down.’ Jack snarled the command through gritted teeth, angry at himself for sensing something in the contact with Isabel’s young body that had no place when his small party was in danger. He felt her go limp as she submitted to his control. He waited, counting off the seconds, anticipating a lull in the firing. A number of shots rang out together, the haphazard volley giving him enough of an opportunity to move. He took a firm hold of Isabel’s arm, tugging her to her feet before dragging her into cover behind a moss-covered boulder that was big enough to shelter her from the enemy’s fire.

  ‘Damn you, Danbury!’ Isabel’s anger was obvious. As soon as Jack let go of her arm, her hands scrabbled at the buckles of the bag that hung around her neck. Her eyes flashed with triumph as she pulled out a compact revolver. ‘I can fight.’

  ‘You will stay here and do such thing.’

  ‘Don’t you dare give me orders.’ Isabel matched Jack’s angry tone. ‘Now sort this mess out and don’t concern yourself with protecting me. I have all the protection I need.’ She brandished the small revolver, and from the look in her eyes, there was no doubt she would not be afraid to use it.

  ‘You will stay here and damn well do as I say, or I shall have one of the men keep you here at gunpoint,’ Jack snapped. ‘Is that clear, Miss Youngsummers?’

  He saw the hurt on her face, the pout on her lips that was becoming so familiar. He turned his back on her, hoping he had cowed her into obeying him for the moment, burying the feelings that she stirred inside him. There would be a time to wonder at the emotions she had awoken, but only if the two of them survived.

  The red-coated native soldiers had reacted quickly and efficiently. The havildar had followed Jack’s order, aligning the ranks calmly so that they formed an extended line, facing the direction of the gunfire. The porters had gone to ground, hiding away, trusting to the escort to keep them safe.

  The small party was held up on the long slope that led to the village and the tower. The fire was coming from the raised ground on their right flank. Jack took in the situation quickly
, his eyes never still as he assessed the threat, his mind already racing as he planned how to get his charges, and his men, out of danger. It was time to bring order out of the chaos. It was time to fight back.

  ‘Havildar. Load!’

  Jack strode away from Isabel, bellowing orders, taking charge, whilst doing his best to ignore the flickering bullets that stung the air around him. The ambush had come from above where the party had been labouring up the slope. Shooting downhill made aiming difficult, and to Jack’s relief most of the shots were whispering past well over their heads. The cough that followed each shot told Jack that they were being fired on by muskets, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks that whoever was attacking did not have access to the powerful rifles the British soldiers had used to such deadly effect in the Crimea. If the enemy had hoped to flay the party with musket fire, then they were going to be disappointed.

  Jack turned around, assessing the situation, listening to the measured tones of the havildar as he took his men through the drill of loading their pieces. Just like Jack’s men in the 24th, Dutton’s soldiers were still using a percussion-cap musket that had been in issue for over a decade and differed little from the weapon used at Waterloo forty years previously. It did not have anything like the range, or the power of the Minié rifle, and Jack knew he would have to make sure he did not overestimate the power of his men’s volley.

  The sepoys finished loading, the extended ranks shuffling as the men flinched at the bullets snapping past their ears or stinging the ground around their feet.

  Jack nodded at the havildar.

  ‘Front rank. Front rank, prepare to fire!’

  ‘Aim at the smoke.’ Jack called out the extra command before nodding again.

  ‘Fire!’

  The volley crashed out; the five muskets of the front rank firing in unison. They immediately began to reload as the second rank lifted their muskets to their shoulders. The crisp commands of the havildar marked their movements, the men carrying out their drill as they had been trained, the countless hours of practice paying dividends now they were under fire.

  The red-coated machine roared into life, fighting back with the calm professionalism of the trained soldier.

  Reverend Youngsummers kicked hard as he urged his tired mount up the scree slope that led towards the tower. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath as laboured as if he had run up the slope himself. He had not known fear before that day. Nothing had prepared him for the churning pit of horror deep in his belly that screwed his guts into a knot of terror. He twisted in the saddle, searching for a glimpse of his daughter, his lips moving in a constant silent prayer, his bowels clenching and threatening to void as his fear bubbled inside him.

  He hesitated as he watched his daughter thrown from the saddle. His hands pulled on his horse’s reins, momentarily slowing its headlong progress, his father’s love making him pause. As he prepared to turn, he spotted the 24th’s new captain scrabble his way towards his daughter’s crumpled body. He saw Isabel move, her head lifting from the ground, the confirmation that she lived sending a surge of relief flooding through him.

  Another round of gunfire rang out, the flurry of shots sending bullets crashing around the ears of the small party. Youngsummers felt his terror rebuilding, his stomach twisting as if the devil himself was inside, squirming in his guts, cruelly injecting the fear that consumed his soul.

  He abandoned his precious daughter to the care of a stranger and sought escape.

  ‘Get on, damn you. Get on!’ He heard the fear in his own voice as he kicked his heels callously against his horse’s sides, careless of his cruelty, desperate to get away from the bullets that had torn through the sunburnt air.

  He could not die. He could not carry out God’s work as a corpse. The Reverend Youngsummers ran from the danger, reassuring himself that he did God’s will by saving his own skin.

  ‘Oh dear Lord, save me.’ He pushed himself up in the saddle, leaning his weight forward to urge the tiring horse on, his bowels exploding and farting the moment his backside lifted from the saddle.

  The scabby hillside suddenly fell away in front of him, revealing a patch of dead ground he had not seen as he charged up the slope. A hundred yards of barren scrub still separated him from the edge of the village. All that remained between danger and safety.

  Yet it might as well have been a thousand.

  ‘No! Dear God, no.’

  Youngsummers had abandoned his only daughter in a desperate bid for safety. Yet his coward’s flight had not secured him the security he craved.

  Instead, Reverend Archibald Youngsummers had found the Tiger.

  The second British volley crashed out, the sound rippling and echoing down the valley.

  ‘Rear rank. Reload.’

  ‘Front rank! Front rank, prepare to fire!’

  The havildar strode behind the rear rank, his watchful glare roving over his charges as they reloaded.

  Jack flinched as a bullet scored past his head, reacting to the high-pitched sound as it punched through the air despite his best efforts to remain composed in front of his men. He knew the volume of fire was nothing compared to the barrage into which the British had marched with such stoic calm at the Alma. Yet despite all he had experienced, his body still reacted with fear, his trembling hands all the evidence he needed to know that he had not become immune to the proximity of death.

  A red-coated sepoy took a glancing wound to his upper arm. The slight, dark-skinned soldier surprised Jack with a stream of foul infective straight from the dockside at Chatham as he staunched the flow of blood, before retaking his place in the line.

  The sepoys’ volleys were having the effect Jack had intended. The enemy fire had slackened considerably, the ambushers driven into cover by the British response. Their return fire was sporadic, and Jack counted the puffs of smoke on the hillside, anxious to be able to get his small command away.

  He had just opened his mouth to order a final volley when a cheer erupted from in front of where the redcoats stood. It was a visceral snarl, the sound warriors made when released to fight, and was followed by the noise of dozens of armed men moving at once. The scrape of metal on metal as weapons were drawn and readied for use.

  Jack looked up the slope and cursed. He realised at once that the gunmen on the hillside had been given one role: to pin the party in place and divert their attention whilst the main force of the ambush manoeuvred into position into the dead ground in front of the stalled column. It was a simple plan, but it was effective.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’ He did his best to sound calm. The ten redcoats heard the order and reached for the scabbards in their belts that held the long steel bayonets. They were vicious weapons, deadly tools in the hands of a trained redcoat. For centuries, British soldiers had closed with their enemies, using the sharpened steel to win the famous victories of which they were so very proud.

  The sepoys clicked the bayonets on to the locking points at the tip of their muskets before wheeling in line so that their two-man-deep formation faced the crest of the slope. It was a pitiful defence, about as formidable as a child’s sandcastle trying to hold back the tide. Yet the redcoats stood their ground, pointing their wicked bayonets forward. Ready for the enemy to appear.

  ‘Aim low when they come. Hit the bastards in the belly.’ Jack offered the advice through gritted teeth. ‘Aim low.’

  He reached down and tugged his regulation sabre from its scabbard. It felt horribly light in his hand. It was a cheap blade, the Calcutta dealer’s assurance that it was made from true English steel now looking as paper-thin as the sword itself. With his other hand he drew his Adams revolver, the sturdy weapon primed and loaded. At least he had one weapon he knew he could rely on.

  ‘Prepare to charge.’

  Ten dark faces turned to face him at once, the same look of horror and shock
in each set of eyes. Only the havildar kept his expression neutral. He held Jack’s gaze for a long moment, his eyes betraying nothing.

  ‘Prepare to charge.’ The native sergeant echoed Jack’s order before taking his place behind the thin red line.

  Jack glanced quickly over his shoulder to check that Isabel had stayed where he had left her. There was no time for her to do anything but trust to her escort. The only hope for them all lay in fighting hard and driving off the ambush.

  Jack would not wait for the enemy to arrive. He would gamble everything on a single volley followed by a madcap charge. Ten native soldiers, one havildar and one impostor would risk a wild assault against the enemy. Eleven bayonets and a suspect sword against a horde.

  The slope stretched away in front of them, the distant tower standing proud against the palest blue sky. A single thin smear of cloud crept leisurely across the view like a steam-powered barge on a gentle afternoon’s cruise. The enemy’s musket fire had died away, so that only the noise of armed men on the move marred the tranquillity.

  The redcoats stood silent and steady, waiting for the enemy to appear. The men gripped their muskets tightly, holding them at the ready, the white of their knuckles evidence of the tension that surged through them.

  The first figure appeared, silhouetted against the skyline. The single bandit stood alone, his sword lifted high as he contemplated the thin line that barred his path. Then the rest of the mob appeared, surging past the lone figure, their blades raised as they charged the red-coated soldiers who had dared to enter their domain.

  There were many more than Jack had imagined. Some were naked save for a langoti around the groin. Their skin glistened with a thick layer of grease, their hands holding anything that could be used to cudgel or hack a man to death. Others were dressed like knights of old, the fierce sunlight reflecting from their polished armour, their gleaming sabres bared and ready to kill. There were flashes of red in the throng, the vivid scarlet of a deserter’s coat bright in the packed ranks. But mainly Jack just saw disaster, his small command no match for the multitude that thundered towards them.