The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  With departure delayed so long, it would have been pragmatic to wait until the early hours of the following morning to set off, but the British officers were awkward in front of the Maharajah and his men, and so had ordered their small column to march late in the afternoon, even though there was no hope of reaching their destination before nightfall. Lieutenant Fenris argued long and loud for them to continue through the night; he was keen to reach Bhundapur, anticipating the laurels he would win for carrying out the orders they had been given. The young officer had spoken loudly enough for Jack to learn that the column had been dispatched with the twin objectives of discovering what had happened to Youngsummers and his daughter, and also apprehending the impostor who had dared to arrive in their midst.

  Captain Kingsley, however, had been forced to listen to Reverend Youngsummers’ tales of bandits and deadly ambushes, the clergyman’s fears of a night march described with biblical vigour. Kingsley was not a man to take risks, his natural caution giving credence to the dangers outlined by Youngsummers, so the redcoats were ordered to make a bivouac in the darkness.

  When the column stopped for the night, Jack was left to find what rest he could, his hands still bound by the heavy manacles, but now at least in front of his body. The redcoats hastily built fires; they were grateful to sink to the ground with their mates, wholly unconcerned about a night spent away from the confines of their barrack rooms. Once the final orders of the day had been issued, the two British officers left the men to their own devices, the divide between the two groups as rigidly enforced in the field as it was in the cantonment. Jack was simply abandoned between them, ignored and alone, the addition of a set of ankle fetters securing him in place.

  ‘Jack?’

  Isabel used the name tentatively, and at first Jack didn’t hear her. He had been lost in another world, reliving his life as an orderly, remembering the days of serving his first officer as if it had been just a few weeks previously and not so many months ago.

  ‘Jack?’ She spoke with more force, refusing to be ignored.

  ‘What?’ Jack’s voice came out as a croak. His mouth and throat were parched and it felt as if he had to physically tear his tongue from the roof of his mouth to be able to speak.

  ‘It’s Isabel.’ She spoke in the careful tone of the young to the old and decrepit.

  Jack squinted through a single eye as Isabel crouched beside him. He could smell her, the subtle scent of a woman’s sweat underscored with that lingering trace of perfume. She looked downcast at his silence. She removed the stopper to a full canteen of water and offered it; Jack took it gratefully in both hands, relishing the opportunity to slake his thirst, his body trembling with desire the moment he felt the first precious drops moisten his tongue.

  ‘Thank you.’ He handed back the canteen awkwardly, the heavy iron manacles making his movements laboured.

  Isabel placed the canteen to one side and sat cross-legged on the ground beside him, looking every inch the schoolgirl she had so recently been.

  ‘No more lies.’ She spoke quietly, guarding her emotions. ‘I just want the truth.’ She searched Jack’s eyes to see if he understood. ‘Was everything just an act?’

  ‘No. Not all of it.’ Jack closed his eyes as he remembered the desperate struggle in the prison they had shared. When he opened them again he saw her watching his face closely. ‘I cannot pretend to fight.’

  ‘You fought to save me. Just as you promised.’

  ‘I did. I figured you were worth the effort.’

  ‘I have never thanked you.’

  ‘There was no need. You were only threatened because I failed to protect you properly. I should’ve seen the danger the moment those bloody bandits opened fire. I should’ve got you away.’ He did not try to contain his bitterness. He had thought he had found a place in life, his ability in the searing cauldron of battle the one thing he had believed he could rely upon. The failure rankled, stinging his stubborn pride.

  ‘You were not to know.’ Isabel shuddered as she remembered the dreadful fight.

  ‘I fought. But I lost. It’s not the first time.’

  ‘Why? When did you lose before?’

  Jack looked at Isabel, wondering if he should open the darkest recesses of his soul. The desire to share his past was strong, but he could not burden the young girl with his bitter memories. It would not be fair. And soon, none of it would matter anyway.

  ‘I loved somebody once. It didn’t work out as I planned.’ Jack contented himself with revealing the half-truth.

  ‘You must have loved her very much.’

  The words astonished him. Isabel did not avert her eyes as he looked at her in amazement. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘How?’ Isabel smiled for the first time. ‘It’s easy. You carry your sorrow in your eyes.’ She reached out her hand, placing it gently on top of Jack’s. ‘I think you have suffered enough.’

  ‘I don’t think Fenris would agree.’

  ‘Arthur acts like a spoiled child. You dared to offend his precious dignity and so he hates you.’

  ‘But he likes you.’ Jack felt a sudden rush of jealousy at the notion. Isabel would have to have been made of stone not to find the dashing young officer attractive. Fenris must have turned her head. He most certainly would have tried.

  ‘I know.’ She acknowledged Jack’s observation.

  ‘He could be a fine man.’

  She smiled at his choice of words. ‘He could be. But he is not. He is not for me.’

  ‘I cannot say I’m not pleased.’ Jack matched her smile, turning his hand to squeeze her own.

  ‘You saved my life. I shall not forget that, Jack. No matter what happens.’

  Jack slowly shook his head. ‘No.’ He spoke firmly, letting go of her hand. ‘You owe me nothing. Consider it my final gallant act, my parting gift to the world.’

  ‘Isabel! Come here this instant.’ Reverend Youngsummers shouted across to his errant daughter as if he had spotted her conversing with the devil himself.

  Isabel’s head turned as her father shouted for her; the anger in his voice was clear. She sighed, and Jack felt her breath kiss against his cheek. Then she uncrossed her legs and got to her feet, her hands brushing her dress flat and knocking off any bits of dirt that had stuck to it as she sat on the ground.

  She looked down at Jack. ‘I will not forget what you did, Jack. Whatever you say.’

  Without another word she turned and walked away, her head bowed as she obediently returned to her father’s side. She did not want him to see the desire on her face, or the spark of excitement in her eyes as she dared to consider doing something that would scandalise the tight-knit society in which she was forced to live. If only she could summon the courage.

  Jack lay on his back, looking up at the stars. He had never paid them much heed before. Indeed, he did not think he had truly noticed them until he left his mother’s gin palace in Whitechapel to join the redcoats. There was little sky to be seen in the stinking rookery in which he had been brought up. In the enclosed confines of the city, it was hard to even make out the sky in the narrow gaps between the tops of the buildings, or through the near-impenetrable smog that filled the air no matter what the season. In the rookeries, staring up at the heavens was asking for trouble. Letting your guard down, even for a single heartbeat, was a quick route to an early grave, a final trip down to the Thames, the last resting place for so many of the denizens of the foul places where no one sane or sober chose to go.

  Now he gazed at a sky with more stars than he could count. He liked their serenity. Whatever happened, they continued to look down, unperturbed by sorrow or by war. They did not care if someone lived, or if they died. If someone stole a scarlet coat or dreamt of a future far removed from the one allotted to them. The stars were always the same.

  He heard a noise, a scra
bble of feet not far from where he lay. He closed his eyes, shutting off his view of the heavens as he concentrated his hearing on the sound. It could have been an animal; a whole menagerie of beasts stirred when the darkness arrived, to scuttle and hurry about their business through the cold night hours before the sun rose. Yet he could hear breathing, the subtle sound of someone trying very carefully to be completely quiet.

  ‘Jack?’

  The icy whisper still took him by surprise. His body jolted at the sudden call, a rush of blood surging through his veins to hammer noisily in his ears. Gingerly he eased himself into a sitting position, scanning the darkness. As he did so, his manacles and fetters clattered noisily.

  ‘Hush.’ The voice urged him to silence.

  Jack did his best to obey, moving with infinite slowness as he manoeuvred round so that he could face the soft voice that had murmured from the darkness. He could just make out a thin silhouette bending towards him.

  ‘Hush yourself.’ He spoke quietly. He knew who had come to disturb his peace. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Be quiet.’ The voice delivered the rebuke with a little more force, its owner clearly annoyed that Jack was treating the situation in such a glib manner. ‘I’ve come to rescue you.’

  Jack did his best not to laugh aloud at the bold announcement. ‘And how do you propose to do that, Isabel?’

  Isabel Youngsummers crept forward and gently slid to her knees beside him. Even in the dim light Jack could see her flushed cheeks, the exhilaration at her escapade clear. She had bound her hair into a dark blue headscarf and swathed her body in a thick brown cloak, both for warmth and to deaden the brightness of her dress.

  ‘If you are going to speak to me in that tone, then perhaps I’ll not bother.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, Isabel. Your father will have a fit if he finds out.’

  ‘He won’t know.’ Isabel spoke quickly and quietly.

  She was right to be confident. It was unlikely anyone would hear her. The bivouac was never completely quiet, the sounds of men snoring, farting and fidgeting loud enough to cover any whispered conversation. The real danger came from a sentry spotting the extra silhouette near where Jack should have been sitting in isolation. Yet the sentries’ job was to face outwards, scanning the ominous shadows for danger, so the risk of discovery was small. But that did not stop Jack fretting. Isabel would be severely rebuked for her exploits if she were discovered, and he did not want her to be punished for his sake.

  ‘You should go back.’

  ‘Never,’ Isabel replied firmly. ‘I shall never go back.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘He wants to send me home.’ There was real pain in her voice. ‘He has vowed to book me on the next available steamship. He will send to me my aunt’s, where I will sit and do nothing until I am married off. I would rather die.’

  ‘He’ll likely kill you himself if he discovers you talking to me.’

  ‘I’m not here to talk to you, you ninny. I said I have come to rescue you, and so I shall.’

  Jack lifted his arms, showing her the heavy manacles that bound his hands, grimacing at the pain the gesture provoked. The skin around the clasps had been rubbed raw, chafed by the unyielding metal so that it was bloody and weeping. ‘And what about these?’

  Isabel smiled with devilment, her eyes alive with her own daring. ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Why, if only I had the key.’

  Her hand fished beneath her cloak and she produced a pair of heavy iron keys with all the panache of a music hall magician.

  Jack looked at her in admiration. ‘Blow me. How did you get those?’

  Isabel chuckled at the look of surprise on his face. ‘Oh, now you’re interested. You still want me to go back?’

  Jack grinned. ‘I do. But give me the damn keys first.’

  Isabel pulled back her hand, removing the keys from his reach. ‘Oh no you don’t. If I give you these, you must promise to take me with you.’

  ‘Take you with me? Take you where, exactly? If I make a run for it, I will be hunted like a damn fox. You would not want that.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t. But we won’t be on the run.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps you are an angel then, using your godly powers to spirit us away. For there is nowhere to hide here.’

  Isabel looked nervously over her shoulder as Jack took the Lord’s name in vain. It would take a long time for her father’s shadow to leave her side.

  ‘There is.’ She spoke firmly and with obvious confidence. ‘I’ve thought it all through. I know exactly where we shall go. And once we are there, no one will be able to reach us.’

  ‘My God, Isabel, are you corned? Did you steal some of your father’s brandy?’

  Isabel flickered her free hand forward, deftly delivering a gentle slap to his arm. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what’s your plan? Where is this wonderful sanctuary? Where can we hide where no one will find us?’ Jack fired the questions at her, a trace of annoyance in his voice. He would be happy to risk an escape, for he truly had nothing left to lose. But he did not have high hopes of success; the local people would certainly not be willing to offer shelter to a white-faced stranger. But it was worth a try, if only to irk Lieutenant Fenris.

  ‘We shall go to the Maharajah. He’ll save us. We will join his court.’ She smiled the sweet smile of victory, for she was quite correct. She had thought of the one place where they would be safe.

  Only the Maharajah could save them now.

  Jack took Isabel’s hand as they crept through the bivouac. He could see the sentries at their posts, the two pairs of redcoats staring dutifully into the darkness as they willed away the long hours of their sentry duty. He kept a close eye on them as he led Isabel through the sleeping camp, hoping that no one could hear the pounding of his heart, which seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

  He kept well away from the slumbering redcoats, guiding Isabel in a wide circle as he aimed for the small group of horses that had been tethered together a short distance from where the officers had chosen to rest for the night. The camp was still in the dead hours after midnight, the last wakeful redcoats settling down for some rest before the next day’s march, which would begin before the daylight crept back to scour the darkness away.

  Isabel let out a gasp of distaste as they moved out of the last light of the fires. ‘What on earth is that?’ She raised a hand to her face, trying to protect her mouth and nose from the foul aroma.

  Jack turned and saw the look on her face. He grinned. ‘The latrine. Try not to step in anything.’

  ‘That’s horrid.’

  Isabel’s disgust was evident, but he had chosen the route with care. Anyone seeing movement heading towards the temporary latrine would think nothing of it; many of the redcoats stumbled into the darkness to relieve themselves during the night. Once past the reeking pits they would be able to move rapidly towards the horses that offered their best chance of escape.

  Jack risked a glimpse back over his shoulder as he led Isabel into the night. He had used her cloak to improvise the slumped shape of a sleeping figure, arranging it so that anyone checking on him would see what looked like a slumbering form. It would not fool his captors for long when the company prepared to march, but by then he hoped he and Isabel would be far away.

  He rubbed at the sores on his wrists, relishing the freedom of movement. He had learnt from bitter experience that even the worst pain did not last for ever, even the most vicious of wounds healing with time. At least, that was true for wounds to the body. Wounds to the soul were different, only ever scabbing over, the tears and fissures left to fester beneath. But he had learnt not to pick at those, letting them rot in the depths of his mind, the pain dulled by familiarity yet never completely going away.

  It did not take long to reach th
e horses. He let Isabel go first; she was more experienced with the animals then he was. She moved forward quickly, murmuring sweet nothings as she approached the horse she had ridden that day. It gave a quiet whinny of recognition and blew loudly through its nostrils as it smelt the open hand Isabel held to its nose.

  Jack looked around, anxiously scanning the slumbering bivouac for signs of alarm. All was still, the redcoats blissfully unaware that the impostor they had been sent to arrest was making off. He saw the sleeping form of Lieutenant Fenris, the young officer enjoying the peaceful rest of the victorious. Jack only wished he could be there when Fenris realised that his prisoner had escaped.

  He smiled at the notion. He knew there was unfinished business between the two of them. The kind of business that could only be settled sword in hand. As Isabel deftly saddled two of the horses, he wondered when that encounter would come. For he knew Fenris would not rest until he had been brought low, the lieutenant’s hatred sure to be fanned by his disappearance with Isabel. He relished the idea. He would not shirk from the fight, whenever it came.

  ‘Isabel. It’s time to get up.’

  Jack gingerly nudged the sleeping form with the toe of his boot. He could make little sense of where her body lay under the thick wrappings of blanket, and he hoped he had not inadvertently poked a sensitive area with his unsubtle alarm call.

  ‘Isabel.’ He spoke again, raising his voice to make sure it penetrated the cloth that swaddled her head. To his satisfaction he saw her start to stir, and almost certain that she would heed his call to rise, he returned to the fire that he had tended during the long, lonely hours of the night.

  They had ridden through the dawn, then on throughout the long, hot day until after night had fallen. He had seen Isabel swaying in the saddle, her exhaustion obvious. As much as he would have liked to keep going, he had sensed that she was at the end of her strength. They had unsaddled the horses, and created a meagre sanctuary on a lonely, windswept hillside, sheltering as best they could amongst a group of large boulders.