Jack twisted his wrist and tugged the dagger from the bandit’s chest, ignoring the blood that poured down the blade to fall hot and sticky on to his hand. He stepped back and let the corpse fall to the floor, the look of terrified anguish now locked on the man’s features for ever. Then he threw the bloody dagger to one side and bent to retrieve the fallen sabre.
‘Isabel. It’s time to go.’ He spoke firmly. He saw the fear in her eyes, but there was no time to dwell on whether she was afraid of the closeness of death or of the man who had fought to save her.
‘I’m ready.’ To her credit, Isabel rallied fast. ‘Papa, come.’
Youngsummers did not move. He sat slumped against the wall, his face covered with scraps of flesh and flecks of blood that had been flung from the tip of Jack’s sword as he fought. His eyes were open, but they were glazed and staring straight ahead.
‘Papa. We are safe now. We need to go.’ Isabel reached forward and gently stroked her father’s cheek.
Youngsummers lifted a hand in front of his face, flapping Isabel’s away. ‘The devil has come for me. I am in hell.’
‘Papa!’ Isabel snapped the word and reached for her father again, only for her hand to be pushed away once more.
‘Do you not see?’ Youngsummers locked his staring eyes on to his daughter. ‘The devil wants me. He wants me!’
Isabel stamped her foot and turned to Jack. ‘He won’t come. You’ll have to carry him.’
Jack paid her no heed. He had checked the bodies of both bandits to make sure they were truly dead before moving out of their tiny prison to peer anxiously around the corner of the corridor that led towards the outside.
‘Captain Danbury.’ Isabel demanded his attention. ‘You will have to carry my father to safety.’
Jack took one last long look around the corner before turning to face Isabel. She stood, hands on hips, in the centre of the room, the bodies of the two dead men forgotten as she issued her orders. Jack could only marvel at her spirit. She had been moments from death, yet now her anger rose like that of a spoiled child as she sought to get her own way.
‘We must go.’ He kept his voice calm, despite knowing they had to hurry before more killers were sent after them. ‘He can stay here. He’ll be safe enough for now.’
‘Leave him here? Never!’ Isabel’s eyes widened in anger.
‘In that case, get him up and he can come with us.’
‘He won’t move. He’s having an attack of the vapours.’
‘Then he stays here.’
‘He will not. You must carry him.’
Jack felt his mouth crease into a grin at the absurd notion. He detected the fury on Isabel’s face as she saw his reaction, so he smiled wider.
‘I don’t think so. Perhaps it would be better for you both to stay here. I’ll come back for you when it is safe to do so.’
‘You shall do no such thing,’ Isabel’s voice rose in anger. She stepped forward, decorously skirting the lifeless hand of one of the men sent to kill her so she could wag her finger in Jack’s face. ‘You will do as I tell you.’
Jack caught her hand, holding the finger tight in his bloody grasp, and bent his head low so that it was only an inch or so from Isabel’s face. The temptation to kiss her was almost overpowering.
‘Can you really see me carrying him? Who is being the fool now?’ His desire made him harsh, and he saw his hard words crush the anger from the young girl’s face just as he crushed her finger in his hand.
Isabel pulled away and he let her go, turning his back on her lest she see the lust that he was sure was written into every pore of his face.
‘Very well. He will stay here but I am coming with you.’ She spoke the words in the icy tones of a dowager giving instructions to her butler.
Jack turned and bowed at the waist. ‘Yes, milady.’
He did not wait to see how Isabel would react. Instead, he walked out of the room.
It was time to see what stirred in the darkness.
The sounds of battle echoed down the narrow passageway. Jack kept his sword to the fore, muttering a silent prayer as he crept forward. The wall on his right blocked the free movement of his sword arm, so he was forced to walk with his arm bent awkwardly as he tried to keep his stolen blade at the ready.
The sounds of fighting grew louder with every step. Jack slowed his pace as the floor levelled out, certain he had to be close to reaching the end of the passage. He pushed himself hard against the left side of the tunnel, giving his sword arm as much room as he could, and inched his way forward. He turned quickly, gesturing for Isabel to stay back, fearful of striking her should he be forced to fight. She shrank back instantly, any notion of disobedience driven away by the tension of tiptoeing along the dark corridor.
The loud crash of a musket being fired assaulted his eardrums, the thunderclap of sound amplified by the thick walls. A thin cloud of pungent smoke billowed towards him, the familiar smell of rotten eggs sticking in his throat. He paused for a moment, tensing his muscles, before throwing himself round the corner, trusting to his speed to overcome any danger waiting after the final bend.
A turbaned figure knelt behind a makeshift barricade that blocked the exit from the passageway. The bandit had just pulled an aged Brown Bess musket back over the barricade, a thin trail of smoke snaking from its bayonet-tipped barrel. He looked behind him in astonishment, his jaw hanging in amazement, as a red-coated British officer appeared from the depths of the tunnel.
Jack gave the shocked musketeer no time to recover. He smashed his sword’s hilt on to the top of the man’s head, bludgeoning him to the ground with the single blow. Then he dragged the fallen man out of the way and crouched down behind the rough barricade, trying to make sense of the confusion that swirled in the darkness beyond the passageway.
A scene of chaos greeted his eyes. It was still night, but the scene was lit by half a dozen watch-fires, the flickering light casting disorientating shadows amongst the shapes of fast-moving bodies. Men ran in every direction, some brandishing weapons, others with arms full of plunder. Crumpled bodies lay scattered across the ground, proof of the effectiveness of the gunfire the prisoners had heard. As Jack watched, he saw a mounted figure ride past no more than ten yards from where he crouched. A loud voice called out, and Jack recognised the calm orders of a commander. The black-robed leader of the mob had arrived to take charge.
Another volley of gunshots rang out. More bodies slumped to the ground as bullets found their mark. The bandit leader roared at his men, bellowing orders, and the mob started to form a crude line facing the gunfire, ignoring their brethren who had been struck down.
More men were summoned from the darkness to join the defensive position. Those with firearms squatted down, aiming their pieces into the darkness. At a fierce word of command they opened fire, delivering a volley that tore out into the night. It was nothing like the volley a British battalion could deliver; instead of barking out in unison, the bandits’ fusillade dragged out, many seconds passing between the first shot and the last. Yet the black-robed leader had got his men fighting back, aiming at the flashes of light that revealed the presence of their enemy.
The incoming fire stopped. The silence stretched out, the powder smoke from the volley drifting away on the light breeze that flitted across the open ground.
The enemy had disappeared.
The bandits looked at each other, their anxiety obvious. The silence pulled at their nerves, the sudden calm as threatening as the shots that had thundered round them. Their black-robed leader walked his horse forward, peering into the darkness, trying to sense where the danger had gone.
Then came a new sound. It was barely audible at first, nothing more than a gentle murmur from far in the distance. But it grew, slowly and steadily, building in intensity, the tempo increasing into a regular staccato rhyth
m.
The bandits shrank back as the noise increased, their thin line contracting in fear, the frightened men seeking the comfort of being close to one another. The drumming was relentless, the vibration reverberating through the ground so it felt as though the soil trembled under their feet.
Jack peered out into the darkness, his eyes searching for the source of the ominous noise. He could see nothing but shadows, menacing shapes that flittered across his vision.
‘What is it?’
He felt Isabel’s breath on his cheek as she whispered the question. He had not heard her approach, the subtle sounds of her movement lost in the constant drumming that continued to build, hammering into their eardrums, the vibration jarring their bodies.
Jack was given no time to answer. From the depths of the darkness a mass of horsemen charged forward. They emerged in one long line, the riders stirrup to stirrup. With a sudden roar they gouged their spurs into their horses’ flanks, urging them on, the final yards to be covered as quickly as possible as the riders committed their mounts to the all-consuming madness of the charge.
Jack was aware of a sense of order as the cavalry burst from the night, the controlled ranks evidence of countless hours of training. The riders wore sky-blue tunics with tight white breeches and a single pouch-belt from right shoulder to left hip. On their heads each wore a square-topped helmet with a single thick white plume that stood proud on the peak. They made a fine sight as they galloped out of the darkness, the splendour of the cavalry charge revealed in all of its dreadful glory.
In the white-gloved hand of each horseman was a lance, its long shaft braced under the right arm. The razor-sharp points moved lower as the riders tensed for the point of impact, the deadly blades keening for the blood of the enemy. The unstoppable wall of death hurtled forward, the lancers’ faces twisted into snarls of hatred as they picked the first targets for their dreadful weapons.
The terrified bandits broke. The gunfire had brought them together, but now they scattered in every direction, throwing their weapons to the floor in their desperate haste to escape. Yet there was nowhere for them to run, no sanctuary to be found on the barren hillside.
From his hidden viewpoint Jack saw confusion tear through their ranks. He was close enough to see the panic on their faces, their despair and terror as they ran to escape the terrifying charge.
The lancers rode on to the hilltop, their line still steady and straight.
And the killing began.
Lances were pulled back as the cavalrymen picked their targets, their tension released as they thrust their weapons forward. They speared their first victims, the sharpened points exploding into the flesh of the men who were trying to escape.
The precise line broke up as the first bandits fell to the ground, their bodies torn by the dreadful weapons. The lancers raced on, overrunning and cutting down the enemy without mercy. Some turned to fight, lifting sabres or talwars to try to counter the dreadful combination of man and beast that thundered towards them. These men at least died with a weapon in their hands, yet not one lancer was unseated, not one horse cut or speared by their desperate acts of defiance, those brave enough to stand their ground pierced by the deadly reach of the lance before they could strike back.
The lancers ruthlessly pursued the fleeing bandits, determined that none would escape. Jack watched in morbid fascination as the fight descended into a hunt and the lancers spurred after their foe, breaking ranks to ride down any bandit still alive.
In front of the barricade, the black-robed leader stood motionless. For a moment, Jack was certain the bandits’ leader would charge the lancers, but instead he gathered his reins in one black-gauntleted hand and whirled his horse round, ramming his heels into the animal’s sides as he made his own bid for safety. A handful of his men followed their chief, throwing away their weapons in their desperate flight.
It was only as the black-robed leader galloped clear that Jack realised where he was. The bandits had conducted their doomed defence on the top of a hill that dominated the surrounding area. It was clear of any building, the closest peasant hovel a good two hundred yards away down the slope. Jack thrust his head past the barricade, looking round to confirm that his first suspicion had been correct. The tower rose away above him, its aged stone sides stretching up into the night.
The tower that Isabel had been so keen to visit.
With nowhere else to run to, many of the fleeing men were making for the tower. None would reach it. They were slaughtered to a man, stuck down by the lancers, who callously butchered them as they tried to escape.
Jack and Isabel watched the orgy of death that was happening a matter of yards from where they hid. The corridor to their prison was slightly to one side of the tower, screened from view by a thick clump of thorny bushes. Jack could only guess that their improvised prison provided some sort of storage for the main tower, the simple room hacked from the ground to shelter precious supplies or valuable animals from the torrid weather that would besiege the area for so much of the year.
Yet they were not totally hidden. Two bandits fleeing from the lancers’ charge must have seen the glow from the entrance as they ran from the slaughter, and they changed direction, heading straight for the barricade.
‘Danbury!’ Isabel saw the danger first, her fingers clutching at Jack’s arm as she called out in alarm.
‘Get back! Now, damn it. Move!’ Jack pushed her back down the corridor and away from the barricade. His haste made him rough, and she tripped as she tried to obey, clattering painfully to the ground so that she lay sprawled directly behind where Jack would have to fight.
‘Stay down!’ Jack cursed under his breath as he failed to get Isabel out of sight. Yet there was no time for any further action, the two desperate bandits now only a few yards away from the barricade.
Jack glanced around and noticed the musket that had been dropped by the turbaned defender. Without hesitation he threw down his stolen talwar and snatched the firearm up, his hands curling round the familiar shape. It felt warm to his touch and he savoured the comforting weight. It had been a long time since he had last handled a musket, yet he felt the confidence surge through him.
The leading bandit reached the barricade. He slashed his sabre in an arc to drive Jack away from the simple obstruction. Jack eased his weight back, letting the sword whisper past inches in front of his face. It was almost too easy. He saw the look of astonishment on the bandit’s face as his blow missed its target, the dreadful realisation that he had left himself wide open and defenceless.
‘One.’ Jack stamped his foot down, throwing his weight forward as he thrust the bayonet into the bandit’s body.
‘Two.’ He twisted the weapon as the bayonet ripped into the man’s stomach, turning the blade to stop it becoming stuck in the dying man’s flesh.
‘Three.’ He recovered his weapon, pulling it back with as much force as he had driven it forward, carelessly slicing the blade through the desperate fingers that grasped it in despair.
‘Four.’ He stamped his foot forward again, aiming the blade at the stomach of the second bandit, who had been revealed as the body of the first slid screaming to the floor. The bayonet reached over the top of the barricade as Jack thrust with all his strength. In desperation, the second bandit tried to parry the blow, swiping his sword sideways in a frantic attempt to beat the weapon aside.
‘Five.’ Jack pulled the musket back as soon as he felt the bandit’s sword batter against it. He saw the man’s eyes flash white as he tried to recover from the desperate counter, his wild defence unbalancing him and leaving him wide open.
‘Six.’ Again Jack stamped forward, ramming his blade into the centre of the second bandit’s body, paying no heed to the sabre that carved a thick slice of wood from the weapon’s barrel as the man’s parry arrived a heartbeat too late to save him.
‘
Seven.’ He pulled the musket back, ignoring the thick pulse of blood that gushed over the bayonet to run through the thick groove in its top that was designed for that very purpose. The second bandit slumped to the ground, collapsing over the body of the first, both men victims of Jack’s ruthless skill.
Jack paused, his muscles tensed. He had felt nothing as he fought, every movement instinctive. It was the drill that was hammered into every raw recruit, the drill masters relentless in their pursuit of perfection as they instilled in the redcoats the ability to use the vicious bayonet with ruthless precision. It was the training that made every one of them a killer.
Past the barricade, the fight was over. The bodies of the bandits were scattered across the ground, some lying in heaps where half a dozen men had been slain in a huddle, some sprawled singly, their torn corpses left to pour their life blood into the dusty soil alone.
The bandits had been massacred, barely a handful escaping the ruthlessly executed attack. The Tiger’s band of misfits and renegades had been broken.
‘Is it over?’
Isabel’s voice was timid. She still lay on the floor and her hands lifted to cover her face as she saw the British officer turn, his face still twisted in the awful snarl of a killer, blood dripping from the tip of the bayonet that he had wielded with such dreadful purpose. He was a figure from a nightmare, and Isabel felt fear flutter in her heart. The presence of death was so close that she could smell the sour tang of spilt blood and the sickly-sweet aroma of torn flesh. He had killed the men in a matter of seconds, dispatching their souls in front of her terrified gaze. Now he came towards her, and for a moment she thought the dreadful gore-smeared blade would reach for her.
Then she saw his face change. The tension left his expression, a trace of the familiar rueful smile returning.
‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to push you so hard.’
He offered her his hand to help her to his feet. The change in his manner was sudden; from killer to civilised gentleman in a single heartbeat. Yet Isabel hesitated, her heart still pounding as she contemplated the strong hand reaching down to her. She saw the blood that was already turning black on his skin, the spilt blood of his enemies staining his flesh. She could only wonder at what stain such a fight would leave on his soul.
The Maharajah's General Page 9
