The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  The Maharajah greeted the introduction with a huge guffaw. He stepped forward, clapping his hand forcefully on Jack’s arm as he did so.

  ‘You are a scoundrel, Danbury.’ The comment was muttered and solely for Jack’s benefit as the Maharajah moved towards Youngsummers, who was visibly shaking as the foreign ruler approached.

  ‘Delighted to meet you at long last, my dear Reverend. I’ve heard much about you.’ The Maharajah reached forward and shook Youngsummers by the hand. If he was put off by the clergyman’s limp and unenthusiastic grip, he did not let it show. A wide smile crept across his face.

  ‘Good Lord.’ Youngsummers stammered as he spoke.

  The Maharajah paid him no heed, his attention now focused fully on Isabel, who curtsied demurely, lowering her eyes before looking up at him through her thick lashes.

  ‘Isabel Youngsummers.’ The Maharajah rolled the name on his tongue as if tasting it. ‘I had been told you were a rare beauty, but those reports did not do you justice.’ He bowed at the waist as he offered both hands to Isabel, gently lifting her back to her feet.

  Isabel blushed at the flattery, the flush of colour spreading from her neck to her pale cheeks. ‘You are too kind, sir.’

  ‘No need for modesty, my dear. I merely speak as I find. It is one of the privileges of being a king.’

  ‘My liege, if I could have a moment.’ Youngsummers cleared his throat noisily before carrying on, clearly unsure how to address the Maharajah. ‘May I enquire what you intend to do with us?’

  A trace of annoyance flared on the Maharajah’s face as the Reverend interrupted his study of Isabel. ‘Do with you? I have no notion what I shall do with you.’

  ‘Well, um, sire, in that case, I must insist you return us to the nearest British establishment with all due haste.’ Youngsummers frowned as he saw that his daughter remained the subject of the Maharajah’s intense scrutiny. He ploughed on, trying to speak in a suitably grave tone. ‘Otherwise I cannot be held accountable for what may occur.’

  The Maharajah tore his eyes from Isabel and placed his hands on his hips as he pondered Youngsummers’ bold choice of words. ‘Do you presume to give me orders, Reverend?’

  ‘Not at all, Your Highness, not in the slightest.’ Youngsummers was clearly flustered. The Maharajah stood uncomfortably close, the force of his personality making the clergyman regret ever having opened his mouth. ‘I merely wish to point out that the authorities will not be pleased should they learn that you did not permit us to return to our rightful place as soon as possible.’

  ‘The authorities? What authorities? Am I not the only authority that matters here?’ The Maharajah stamped his foot in obvious irritation.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.’ Youngsummers fluttered his hands in front of his wide stomach, as if to shoo the Maharajah away. He looked around for support, but Jack was in no mood to assist. ‘I meant no insult. I merely wish to ensure the safe return of my daughter to the station at Bhundapur.’

  ‘Good. I hope we understand each other, Reverend. I would hate there to be any confusion. For the moment, I must ask you to be patient. It is nearly dawn, so I suggest that you rest as best you can. I will have one of my men bring you some food.’

  Youngsummers nodded in mute acceptance, clearly relieved that the Maharajah was bringing the conversation to a close, the promise of food enough to buy his silence.

  The Maharajah turned and stalked away. More blue-coated lancers were arriving on the bloodstained hilltop, the carbines on their saddles revealing the identity of the gunmen who had succeeded in forcing the bandits to gather together. The Maharajah welcomed them with loud praise, leaving the three former prisoners to themselves.

  Jack did his best to compose himself. They had been saved from the Tiger, but they were still not yet safe.

  The country was on the brink of war. When it came, there would be no refuge for anyone with a white face. Not until the Maharajah and his army had been destroyed.

  Dawn crept across the far horizon, reds, oranges and ochres rushing to paint the sky with warmth, banishing the forbidding colours of the night. The first grazes of blue followed quickly, heralding the azure vastness that would fill the heavens until dusk.

  The world came to life. The animals that had survived the bandits’ ransacking of the village started to voice their protest at being confined, a cacophony of bleats, grunts, barks and hisses greeting the dawn. The lancers’ horses added their own noise, urging their masters into activity. As the last grey shadows of the night crept stealthily away, the cavalrymen bustled into life, beginning the long list of chores that had to be done to prepare themselves and their horses for the day ahead.

  The three former prisoners sat in silence around a simple fire that the lancer charged with their care had coaxed to life. They had broken their fast on some of the rations the cavalrymen carried in their saddlebags, none of which had managed to meet Reverend Youngsummers’ high expectations.

  ‘If only they had been able to locate our provisions. Then we would not be forced to eat this muck.’ For the umpteenth time Youngsummers lamented the loss of his picnic, as he stared sorrowfully at the dried mutton and hard bread he was continuing to eat at a healthy rate, despite his misgivings.

  Jack forced himself to his feet, urging his aching joints into action. He watched the Maharajah’s lancers as they went about their duties, running a professional eye over the troops he might one day have to fight. He was impressed by what he saw. The blue-coated cavalry worked with the industry of trained soldiers, their movements practised and efficient. Everything he saw told him that Major Dutton had been too complacent in his judgement of the Maharajah’s army. The British contingent at Proudfoot’s disposal was beginning to look woefully inadequate.

  A series of loud shouts interrupted his casual inspection of the lancers. Like any good commander, the Maharajah had established a number of vedettes, and now a single rider was spurring hard up the slope to the top of the hill where the bulk of the lancers had made their bivouac.

  Jack brushed away the dust that covered his uniform. He turned to face the direction the rider had come from, kneading the small of his back to work away some of the nagging pain that the hours on the hard ground had awoken.

  His hands froze in place.

  A column of soldiers had marched into view. Even from a distance there was no mistaking the red coats that had been made famous on countless battlefields in the four corners of the globe.

  The British army had arrived.

  Jack stood to one side as the column of redcoats marched up the hillside. The sun was still low in the sky, but already the heat of the day was starting to build. He felt the first prickles of sweat emerge as he did up the last of the brass buttons on his heavy scarlet coat, forcing the stiff collar into place and setting his shako straight on his head. He might have been missing his weapons, but he did his best to look as presentable as possible as he prepared to greet his new command.

  The Maharajah ordered his own men to form up in column as he readied them to meet the arrival of the British forces. He stationed himself at the front of his troops, lolling easily in the saddle as he waited for the foreign soldiers whose presence in his land so grated on his pride.

  Jack watched the redcoats closely. The tight column lost some of its order as the men struggled to maintain their spacing on the slippery loose soil and rock of the scree slope, which continually gave way under their feet. He savoured the opportunity of leading a company again, eagerly anticipating the coming months and weeks when he would get to know every facet of his new command. It was the privilege that he coveted most, the one that meant so much more than all the gaudy trinkets that bedecked an officer’s life. Despite all he had experienced since he had first stolen James Danbury’s identity, he still felt pride as his red-coated soldiers marched resolutely on.

  R
everend Youngsummers strode forward to greet the column, arms spread wide in greeting. As Jack listened to the clergyman’s sonorous voice delivering a loud prayer of thanks for his deliverance, he continued to watch his new command carefully, assessing their bearing after what must have been a long and draining night march. He was pleased with what he saw, the men marching with elan as they showed off their skills in front of the Maharajah and his lancers. He read the expressions on many of the faces, recognising the mix of anxiety and distrust of infantrymen parading in front of cavalry. He smiled, understanding the feeling well. The smile faded as he noticed the presence of Lieutenant Fenris. His dashing subaltern sat his fine white horse well, riding with grace and composure despite what had been a long ride from the British cantonment.

  Jack was about to move forward and offer his own greeting when he noticed that there was a second officer present with his company. He froze, staring at the man in confusion. He could not comprehend why there should be another officer wearing the uniform of a captain in the 24th Foot; a uniform identical to the one Jack himself wore.

  He closed his eyes as it all began to make sense. He had thought the army would be slow; that the long, protracted negotiations that followed the death of an officer on campaign would give him months before the real Captain Danbury’s commission could be sold. He had been utterly wrong. The presence of the second mounted officer proved his assumptions to be nothing more than hopeful folly, condemning him to a bitter future, one that would likely lead to a cold dawn on the scaffold.

  The new owner of the late Captain Danbury’s commission had arrived. Jack’s charade was over before it had barely begun.

  ‘There’s the damned impostor! Arrest him!’ Lieutenant Fenris bellowed the accusation as soon as he clapped eyes on Jack, his voice rising in excitement.

  ‘What on earth?’ Youngsummers’ prayer was quickly forgotten as Fenris bounded from the saddle and rushed past the astonished clergyman.

  Jack had always known this moment could come, but he had believed he would be safe for longer than the few days he had spent at Bhundapur. He cursed his fortune but straightened his spine and resolved to meet his denunciation with as much dignity as he could muster. He had often wondered how he would face it. He had imagined every reaction – anger, fear, denial – but had never conceived that he would feel so little. His heartbeat had barely increased in the time since Fenris had shouted his crime aloud, despite the look of shock and horror he saw appear on Isabel’s face.

  ‘You damned blackguard.’ Fenris’ lips pulled back in anger as he snarled the words.

  Jack could see the younger officer’s body vibrating with barely controlled rage. The intention to strike was obvious, his right hand already balled tightly into a fist and moving upwards, the blow driven by all his pent-up anger. But Jack was quicker. He grasped Fenris tightly by the forearm before it had travelled more than a few inches. There was time enough to register the shock on the young officer’s face before Jack snapped his forehead forward, smashing it into the centre of Fenris’ face.

  The leading rank of redcoats dashed forward at the double as their officer hit the ground. Led by a corporal whose name Jack could not place, they hefted their muskets, ready to use them against the man they had been ordered to arrest the moment they arrived.

  Jack lifted his hands in surrender. His forehead might have throbbed from the blow but there was satisfaction in seeing Fenris on the floor, cupping his hands over his broken nose in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood that gushed from the wound.

  ‘No rumpus, all right?’ The corporal asked the question hopefully, clearly not relishing the unpleasant task of arresting the man he had believed was his commanding officer.

  ‘I’ll not cause you a problem, Corporal.’ Jack kept his eyes on Fenris as he spoke, wary of a sudden attack.

  But the sight of his own blood had dampened the lieutenant’s urge to fight. ‘You’ll hang, you bastard,’ Fenris gasped, the effort of speaking jarring his battered face.

  ‘Hang? Who will hang? Would someone please tell me what is going on?’

  Isabel Youngsummers had rushed over as soon as Fenris had hit the ground. She now demanded an answer to her question, her wavering voice betraying her shock. Her father had chosen to ignore the confrontation and was instead engaging the new captain of the 24th with a barrage of questions, accusations and commands. The Maharajah and his lancers stood immobile, content to remain spectators so long as the British chose to fight amongst themselves.

  Isabel squatted to the ground, deftly extracting Fenris’ handkerchief from his pocket. She pressed it to the centre of the lieutenant’s face whilst using her free hand to tilt his head backwards so that he looked to the sky.

  ‘That man is a damned impostor and he’ll hang for his crime.’ It was hard to make out the words as Fenris tried to speak and breathe through his mouth at the same time, but Isabel understood enough to offer a shocked gasp.

  ‘An impostor! I don’t believe it. Danbury, tell me what is going on here this instant.’

  ‘He’s quite correct.’ Jack fixed his eyes on Isabel’s. ‘I am an impostor. I’m not Danbury. I’m not even an officer.’

  ‘Isabel, that bloody hurts!’ Fenris tried to push away Isabel’s hand, which gripped his nose tightly as she tried to make sense of Jack’s revelation.

  The protest brought her out of her silence. ‘You are not Captain Danbury?’

  ‘No. My name’s Jack.’

  ‘And you are a fraud and a blackguard and I shall piss on your grave.’ Some of the fire was returning to Fenris’ belly as Isabel’s presence urged him to show more courage.

  ‘Arthur!’ Isabel released Fenris’ bloodied nose, causing him to curse as the action sent a bolt of pain through the centre of his brain.

  ‘He is correct. I may well hang.’ Jack leant down and offered Isabel his hand.

  ‘Why? Why must you hang?’ She took his hand, rising to her feet so that she stood barely a foot from him.

  Jack wanted nothing more than to reach out and run his hand through her hair. She had done her best to assert some order to its appearance, clipping it with the hairpins that had so caught his attention when he had first seen her at Proudfoot’s soirée. But her work had been temporary at best, and more than one errant lock had escaped her hastily constructed arrangement and now whispered across her face.

  ‘I must hang as an example to others. I have broken Queen’s Regulations and so I will be punished.’

  ‘But why did you do it?’ Isabel gripped his hand hard as she questioned his motives. ‘You must have known it would end like this one day.’

  ‘Because I had nothing else.’

  Isabel opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it and instead stood in silence, her hand in Jack’s, trying to understand the sudden revelation.

  ‘You did it because you are a knave and a thief and you’ll hang, you bastard, because you damn well deserve it.’ Fenris staggered to his feet, using the green cuff of his scarlet jacket to mop up the last of the blood still trickling from his nostrils. ‘Corporal, put this man in manacles and guard him well.’ He took firm hold of Isabel’s arm, propelling her forcefully out of Jack’s grip and leading her back towards her father. ‘And strip him of his uniform,’ he added as he walked away, disdainfully turning his back on Jack, refusing even to look at him. ‘That bastard has no right to wear it.’

  Jack submitted to the rough hands as they tugged his scarlet coat from his back. He retreated to the nothingness of his emotions, even as the manacles took him in their cold, remorseless grasp. He kept his eyes down, focusing them on a pile of dirt that was stained with Fenris’ blood. He no longer had a part to play in this early-morning scene, so like any good actor he tried to merge into the background lest the audience be drawn to him rather than those on the main stage. It was time to submit to hi
s fate.

  Jack marched in the centre of the small column, the corporal and his guard surrounding him with their bared bayonets in case he lost his mind and tried to mount a desperate escape. His shoulders ached from the unnatural position they were forced to adopt now that his hands were manacled behind his back, and the pit of his spine ached dreadfully, dogging his every step. He focused on the pain, examining the way it surged around his body, using the hurt to dispel the despair in his soul.

  He had been given no opportunity to plead his case. The Maharajah had kept at a distance, treating the handover of the former prisoners as if it were not of sufficient concern to trouble the attention of a king. Jack would have enjoyed a final conversation with the foreign ruler; he had sensed a kindred spirit, despite the huge gulf in their status. Yet just as it had been when he was nothing more than a common redcoat, such familiarity was now denied him. The new captain of the 24th, whose name he had learnt was Kingsley, had avoided all contact with him, as if he would somehow become contaminated should he acknowledge the presence of the man who had dared to assume his commission. Jack was left to the care of the corporal of the guard, who treated him as well as the situation allowed.

  To Jack’s dismay, he had not found an opportunity to speak to Isabel, who remained close to her father’s side, as if tethered by some invisible rope. He was certain that any feelings she might have started to develop towards him would now have twisted into dark disgust as his deception was revealed in all its sordid glory. It was hard not to regret missing out on what might have been. But if he closed his eyes, he could still summon an image of the first girl he had truly loved. Remembering what he had lost made losing what might have been easier to bear.

  Kingsley, Fenris and the men of the 24th had been forced to spend many uncomfortable hours in the remains of the village, waiting for the heat of the day to diminish before they could begin the long march back to Bhundapur. Their return was further delayed by Reverend Youngsummers, who insisted on being allowed to sleep through the greater portion of the day, his claim of nervous exhaustion made with such conviction that neither Kingsley nor Fenris had been able to convince him to rouse himself until he was good and ready.