Jack felt cold as he sat in the saddle watching the thousands of men coming together. He was struck by the gaudy vibrancy of the scene, the lack of a single uniform creating a kaleidoscope of colour. Yet there was no doubting the unity of the men. The warlike horde knew they had been summoned to fight, and that purpose united them more forcefully than any uniform.
‘We will truly have to fight them?’ Isabel spoke in a voice laced with horror. She sat at Jack’s side, her young mare quivering as it sensed its mistress’s distress.
Jack reached across and squeezed her hand where it rested on the pommel of her saddle. He looked at her rare beauty, savouring the vitality of her youth, very aware that he had made two choices when he had asked the Maharajah for permission to leave.
At least he no longer dreaded being in the saddle, the long, difficult hours of drill with the Maharajah’s lancers leaving his muscles hard and well used to the demands of controlling the powerful horse he had been given from the Maharajah’s own stables. The uncompromising lessons had taught him well and he could now ride as hard as any lancer, a skill he was certain to need in the bitter fight that was surely to come.
‘We will fight them if we have to. If they attack the cantonment at Bhundapur then we must do what we must.’ Jack’s voice was cold.
‘They frighten me,’ Isabel spoke softly, a child faced with the monster from a nightmare.
Jack’s jaw was set firm as he ran a professional eye over the Maharajah’s army. ‘They have numbers on their side, but that is all. I’d still wager on our boys seeing them off. But we will need to stand firm and keep them out, butcher them with our volleys. God help us if they get close enough to fight hand to hand.’
Isabel shivered despite the rising heat of the morning. Sunrise was still a long way off, but already the day promised to be brutally hot. It would be an unpleasant day in the saddle, but Jack was determined they would ride for as long as they could, no matter what conditions they faced. They had been given permission to leave, but still he would take no chances. He would not rest until they were a long way away from the army that the Maharajah planned to unleash.
The noise of the gathering horde suddenly increased. The cacophony of sound was deafening. There were none of the martial tones used to inspire and control the British army. In place of the strident call of the bugle and the disciplined staccato of the drum, there was an ear-splitting medley of screech and bawl, an unholy frenzy that erupted in one spontaneous roar.
Jack grimaced as the sound swelled. Thousands of men were cheering, their coarse bellows underscoring the higher-pitched din. His heart pounding, he searched for the source of the unprompted raucous symphony, wondering what could have inspired such bedlam.
The gates to the fortress had been flung wide open, the passageway into the heart of the citadel lined with immaculately dressed guards who snapped to attention at the shouted commands that were barely audible against the frenzy of sound. From the darkness of the gatehouse the Maharajah emerged to address his army, and Jack watched in awe as the man he had begun to think of as a friend entered his domain with all the great panoply of a powerful ruler.
The Maharajah was seated on the back of an enormous elephant. The creature’s grey hide was thickly covered in silver traces that shimmered and shone as the animal emerged into the early-morning sunlight that was just beginning to stream across the fortress. Its head was painted in fabulous patterns, bold crimson and scarlet swirls intertwined with gold and silver ornaments to create an intricate display. Its tiny eyes were surrounded with wide white bands, an extra pair of huge staring eyes making the beast appear like a monster from a fairy tale, a creature from another world summoned forth by the great power of the Maharajah.
The Maharajah sat high in a splendid golden howdah. He was dressed in the same crimson robes he had worn when presenting Jack with the sword that he still wore at his hip. He looked every bit the magisterial ruler, the very epitome of a foreign king. Everything about him appeared almost other-worldly, as if he were a creation of divine power imbued with earthly life, a child of the gods given leave to rule mortal men.
Jack heard Isabel draw in a sharp breath as she saw the cause of such frantic devotion. It was hard to equate the magnificent ruler in front of them with the man they had so often seen dressed in the simple garb of an ordinary soldier. The contrast was astonishing, and Jack could not truly believe he had once sat on the Maharajah’s council, at the heart of his inner circle.
The elephant walked calmly into the sunlight, beginning a long procession that would bring the Maharajah into full view of his assembled army. This was grandeur on an impressive scale, and Jack wondered if he had been right to be so confident that the British at Bhundapur could withstand an assault by such a force as he was witnessing. Isabel was not the only one frightened by what they saw.
‘Okay, laddie. Time to get you two out of here.’
Jack looked down and saw Subedar Khan glaring firmly back at him. This time he intended to do exactly as he was told.
The Maharajah was stirring his men into a frenzy. He stood high above them, haranguing them in their own tongue, exhorting them to be ready for battle, to take the fight to the white-faced invader who threatened to rip their land apart. Jack had never heard him talk with such powerful invective. He spoke like a man possessed, his wild gestures and bold oration in stark contrast to the mild, sophisticated man who had treated Jack and Isabel with such good humour. Jack knew then that he had made the right decision in asking to leave.
‘Cover your faces. Quickly now.’ Subedar Khan handed over two of the silk bands they had seen being given out to the assembling warriors. It was good advice. More than one swarthy face had started to stare in their direction. The Maharajah was urging his army to slay their new enemy, and it made no sense to present themselves as an easy target for the wrath that was building so quickly.
Jack could feel the strain in the air, like the tension that built before a summer’s thunderstorm. He sensed the danger, as did Subedar Khan, who beckoned to a detachment of his guards to form a protective cordon around Jack and Isabel.
‘Let’s go.’ Jack bowed low in the saddle, speaking into the ear of the subedar, who had remained close to his stirrup.
The blue-uniformed guards led them away, skulking around the edge of the inner wall, doing their best to ignore the building hatred. The army began to chant, the deep, rhythmic sound coming in pulsating waves as the men responded to the call to war. It hammered into the small party as they scurried away, the noise more terrifying than any Jack had heard before, even the sound of the huge Russian columns paling in comparison.
The dark gatehouse was cold after the warmth of the morning sun, the sudden chill shocking against their exposed flesh. Yet it was a relief to be away from the dreadful keening, the thick stone walls deadening the oppressive sound of the army’s visceral chant.
‘Ride quickly, laddie. Do not stop for anything.’ Subedar Khan offered the final words of advice as they passed through the immense outer gates and on to the long, twisting ramp that led down to the wide plain surrounding the fortress.
Jack nodded his thanks before jabbing his spurs into the flanks of his horse. It was time to ride, to escape the refuge they had sought so willingly. The palace that had given him so much was now the heart of his enemy’s strength.
He had made his choice. He could not betray his country, no matter what penalties he faced. He was a redcoat, and nothing could change that. War had come, and Jack had chosen his side.
The Maharajah of Sawadh had become his enemy.
The sound of polite laughter and the chime of cut crystal were clearly audible over the chirp and buzz of the thousands of insects that had come alive as soon as the sun had set. The bungalow in front of them was ablaze with light, the shadowy forms of people flitting across the drawn curtains as they moved within.
Jack turned to look at Isabel, wanting to savour the moment. He knew it would be the last time he would be able to look at her so freely. The sense of impending doom was heavy upon him, but he strode towards Proudfoot’s bungalow nonetheless. He had made his choice.
The journey had exhausted them. He had forced the pace, making them ride through all but the very hottest hours of the day. They had encountered no interference, and seen barely a sign of another living being. Jack sensed the Maharajah’s hand in their eventless journey. Whether it was to preserve Isabel’s skin or to ensure the delivery of his dire warning he was not sure, but he felt a sense of relief as they finally made it to the British cantonment at Bhundapur.
‘Wait here, if you please, sir.’ Colour Sergeant Hughes spoke respectfully yet firmly. The four redcoats he had brought with him stamped to a halt, the presence of their colour sergeant necessitating the utmost attention to their drill.
Jack noticed Hughes’s furrowed brow. He did not know what reaction he would get from the men he had commanded for barely more than a day. He could read little in the colour sergeant’s expression, the man’s demeanour as calm as it had been the first time he had met his bogus captain.
He nodded his understanding, and watched as the 24th’s senior non-commissioned officer marched up the steps to Proudfoot’s home, his bearing erect and disciplined, as if the arrival of the most wanted felon in all of Sawadh was an everyday occurrence. He risked a surreptitious sniff at his armpit. He stank. The hard ride had left him reeking, his shirt and breeches stained and rank. He had decided against wearing his blue lancer’s uniform. There was no sense in reminding Proudfoot of his role in the Maharajah’s army; it would only add to the man’s belief that he was a traitor. So he had hidden it, bundling it up and pushing it deep under some rocks a mile from the cantonment. He still wore his talwar, the curved blade hanging at his hip, and now he reached across, running his fingers over the coarse sharkskin hilt, seeking reassurance as he prepared to welcome his fate.
‘Jack.’ Isabel whispered his name. ‘Everything will be all right. We are doing the right thing.’
Jack smiled at her reassurance. It was some indication of how much she had grown up that she now sought to support him despite her own misgivings. ‘Whatever happens, I don’t regret my choice,’ he replied.
‘Neither do I.’ Isabel’s face betrayed her own anxiety. He was not the only one meeting his fate that day. They had talked on the journey. He knew she faced little physical danger, her punishment likely to be nothing more than her father’s ire followed by a rapid departure for the backwaters of an English county. But disgrace and ruin were no small punishment, and Jack thought he could understand just what it was costing her. Her duty to her kin and to her countrymen had come first, even though she would be forced to pay the price for her wanton behaviour for years to come, perhaps for the rest of her life.
In Proudfoot’s bungalow, the sound of polite conversation froze, the shadowed room falling into silence as the tall colour sergeant interrupted the soirée to deliver his news. Jack could picture the faces as the first whiff of scandal whipped around the room. Like vultures spying a fresh corpse, the upper echelons of the cantonment’s limited society would relish the occasion of Jack’s disgrace. That the villain had returned to the scene of his crime was a juicy morsel that would only add to their enjoyment of the dish.
Proudfoot emerged to stand at the top of the steps. He was dressed in a crimson smoking jacket and he still held a crystal goblet of dark red wine the colour of old blood. If he was surprised to see Jack and Isabel, it did not show on his urbane features. He even managed a thin smile, the kind a gracious host reserved for an uninvited guest.
‘Mr Lark, so very good of you to return. Miss Youngsummers, I am delighted to see you back safely.’
He stood straighter as his guests pushed to the door behind him, elbows and sharp heels working furiously to secure a better view of the entertainment. Jack saw Major Dutton, his florid face flushed from the heat and from the effects of the first of the evening’s sharpeners. Kingsley was there too, but he hung back, as if unwilling to be seen, or perhaps simply bored with the evening’s turn of events. Jack caught a glimpse of Fenris before his face disappeared from the throng. He could only wonder at how their first meeting would turn out, but he was certain it would not be pleasant, for him at any rate.
‘I have sent a runner for your father, Miss Youngsummers. I am sure he will be as delighted to see you as I am,’ Proudfoot continued, clearly relishing the chance to be the lead actor on the stage. ‘However, I’m afraid I doubt there is anyone here pleased to see your return, Mr Lark.’
Colour Sergeant Hughes emerged from the crowd. Major Proudfoot nodded in Jack’s direction, and Hughes came down the stairs to stand a yard away from him. Jack felt the shackles of his former life slip around him with all the iron-hard resolution of the manacles that he was sure awaited him. He said nothing in reply to Proudfoot, merely standing by as if he were a fascinated spectator to the events unfurling around him. The only emotion he felt was one of disappointment that his arrival had created precisely the reaction he had expected.
Proudfoot, however, was clearly delighted by the turn the evening had taken, and he puffed himself up so that he would not let his audience down. ‘Colour Sergeant Hughes. Have that man arrested and taken to the guardroom. He is to be watched at all times.’ The dramatic words had the desired effect, and Jack could see the pleasure on Proudfoot’s face as his guests welcomed his order with a gasp of gleeful horror.
‘Sir!’ Hughes stiffened to attention. Whatever the non-commissioned officer thought was well hidden behind the dignified facade of a British sergeant, the twitch of his thick moustache the sole reaction to the command to arrest a fellow redcoat.
‘No!’ Isabel shouted the single word firmly. ‘Major Proudfoot. Mr Lark saved my life. He is not a common criminal and you must not treat him so.’
Proudfoot appeared genuinely taken aback by Isabel’s firm denial of his orders. He turned and handed his glass to Major Dutton, who had arrived to stand at his shoulder, before carefully walking down the steps.
‘Miss Youngsummers. I cannot begin to imagine what you have gone through. It must have been a traumatic experience for someone of your tender years.’ Proudfoot spoke in the oily tones of the professional diplomat. ‘I can only hope that the love of your father and the opportunity to rest will allow you to recover your senses.’
‘Damn you, Proudfoot.’ Isabel stamped her foot, her mouth twisting in vexation as her oath drew a sharp intake of breath from the watching crowd. ‘Jack came here of his own free will to warn you.’
Proudfoot winced at Isabel’s language before turning to face Jack. ‘It is clear you have had some significant effect on Miss Youngsummers.’ He chuckled at the notion before continuing. ‘So you have come to warn me? That really is very magnanimous of you, given your straitened circumstances. It must be something of grave importance to risk having your neck stretched for it.’ He smiled at his own pun, turning to acknowledge the one or two men in the audience who chuckled at his wordplay.
Jack watched Proudfoot closely. He could see the delight in the major’s sparkling eyes. It would feel good to puncture his conceit.
‘The Maharajah of Sawadh has gathered his forces. He plans to attack Bhundapur. As of yesterday, you are at war.’ Jack spoke softly, lowering his voice so his announcement did not carry to the watching crowd.
Proudfoot absorbed the news without a twitch. The silence drew out, the official not even deigning to reply. His guests had spilled out on to the wide veranda that surrounded his bungalow, and now they pressed forward, anxious to listen to the hushed exchange taking place between the cantonment’s commander and the charlatan who had been the topic of nearly every whispered conversation for weeks in the news-starved community.
Then Proudfoot began to laugh. There
was no shred of enjoyment in the dry, humourless sound. It was the noise of a man suddenly realising he had managed to carry off an outrageous bluff at cards.
‘You are not surprised?’ Jack managed to keep the disappointment from his voice. He had staked his life on the news, hoping that the warning would keep him from the scaffold.
‘Surprised! Why on earth would I be surprised?’ Proudfoot spun on the spot, suddenly unable to stand still as he savoured the news. ‘Why, it is exactly as I planned.’ He spoke quietly so the audience on the veranda could not hear his words, but the triumph in his voice was unmistakable.
Jack looked at Isabel. Her expression betrayed her distress at the official’s reaction to the news they had ridden so hard and so far to deliver.
‘You planned this?’ Her face was white as he spoke.
‘Of course.’ Proudfoot was all scorn now. ‘Why else would I give the damn man the news that his kingdom will lapse when he dies? I wanted him to react.’
‘Why?’ Jack asked the question, yet he already knew the answer. His stomach churned as the full scale of Proudfoot’s ambition became clear, the sour taste of having been fooled bitter in his mouth.
‘Because only then can I crush him.’ Proudfoot’s voice was dispassionate as he discussed the death of hundreds of men. ‘How else was I to draw the sting of this damned viper? I have not long left here and I simply have to get this done before I go. One has to think of one’s career. How can I compete with Nicolson and the rest if I fail to deliver this pathetic little place?’
‘You bastard.’ Jack hissed the words, stunned at the man’s ruthlessness.
‘I shall take that as a compliment, coming from you.’ Proudfoot’s voice was cold. He turned to the colour sergeant. ‘Bring me this villain’s sword and have him put in manacles.’ He offered Jack a mocking bow. ‘Welcome home, Mr Lark.’
The Maharajah's General Page 24
