The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  Dutton looked at Jack for some time, as if trying to come to terms with what the younger man had said. Eventually his face softened, whether from finding some peace of mind or simply from the large amount of brandy he had consumed Jack could not tell.

  ‘So what happens tomorrow?’ Dutton asked, his voice calm once again.

  ‘They attack. Those horsemen today were his irregular cavalry. The main body of his army has only just arrived. I expect we will have to face his infantry first, and believe me, there are a lot of those bastards. They’ll hit us on all sides, and if we break, he’ll send in his bloody lancers.’

  Dutton listened to Jack’s prediction before sucking in a deep breath. ‘So tomorrow we die.’

  Jack snorted at the melodramatic phrase. ‘No. Tomorrow we fight.’

  He turned as he heard the soft tread of footsteps behind them, wary of anyone coming to interrupt his conversation.

  ‘Good evening, General.’

  ‘Isabel.’ Jack could not hide the pleasure in his voice. ‘Does your father know you’re here?’ He smiled as he helped her on to the fire step behind the barricade, offering her his hand so that she could sit beside him.

  ‘Father is drunk.’ The corners of Isabel’s mouth twitched in disapproval.

  ‘Sensible fellow.’ Dutton took another slug of brandy, already too drunk himself to be concerned about his behaviour in front of a lady.

  ‘Perhaps. May I?’ Isabel held out her hand questioningly towards the brandy, which Dutton passed over, as if sharing hard spirits with young women was an everyday occurrence.

  She took a demure sip, grimacing at the harsh taste. ‘Your wife is asking after you, Major Dutton. She seems most concerned.’

  Dutton shook his head ruefully. ‘Poor Hilary. She is not cut out for any of this.’

  Jack felt Isabel’s body pressing against his side as she sat beside him. She smelt wonderful, the delicate fragrance of her fresh perfume a balm to his soul, its subtle aroma driving away the smell of burning and of death.

  ‘She is made of sterner stuff than you give her credit for,’ she replied evenly, brushing at her dress. ‘She is with the wounded. Doing what she can to help.’

  ‘She is a fine woman. She deserves better.’

  ‘None of us chooses our fate.’ Isabel looked at Jack as she offered her advice to Dutton. ‘It chooses us. All we decide is how we face it.’

  The three sat in silence as they contemplated Isabel’s words. The cantonment was well ablaze, the heat of the flames warm on their faces as the chill of the night set in. Shadowy figures flitted into view amidst the burning buildings, but none ventured close to the temporary refuge the British had erected. It seemed the survivors were to be left in peace for the night.

  Isabel slipped her hand forward so that it rested on Jack’s thigh. ‘Perhaps we didn’t do the right thing after all.’ She broke the silence with a whisper, her mouth close enough to Jack’s ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the side of his face. Her fingers were like red-hot coals on his leg and he wished they were alone.

  ‘And miss all this. How can you even think that?’

  Isabel rapped his leg. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘We fight.’ An unexpected voice answered her question.

  None of the three had heard the footsteps of Major Proudfoot as he approached. ‘We hold here until the flying column from Fort St John arrives. Isn’t that right, Lark?’

  Proudfoot bounded on to the fire step, the jet-black cloak draped over his shoulders billowing around him as he leapt athletically over the wall of mealie bags, landing on the balls of his feet before turning to face his meagre audience.

  Jack looked at the odd creature that had capered across the wall like a demented goat. ‘I reckon that’s right.’ His voice was guarded.

  ‘Major Dutton.’ Proudfoot lifted a quizzical eyebrow in his subordinate’s direction. ‘Can we hold?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  Proudfoot nodded his head as if Dutton had offered wise advice rather than such a bitter statement. He spun on his heel and studied the burning cantonment for some time.

  ‘Do you think we can hold?’ Isabel asked the question to the back of Proudfoot’s head when she could stand the silence no longer.

  ‘Of course,’ the major answered without turning round. ‘But perhaps you should ask the commander of the 24th?’

  ‘He’s not here.’ Jack answered the odd question. ‘Kingsley appears to have disappeared.’

  ‘Captain Kingsley is indisposed.’ Proudfoot steadfastly refused to turn around and remained facing the fires. ‘He is with the sick. He will stay there until after the battle. He took a nasty blow to the head and it has quite addled his wits.’

  ‘Then ask your lapdog when he gets back.’ Jack’s opinion of the lieutenant was clear in his derisory tone.

  Proudfoot wheeled round suddenly and Jack felt Isabel start at the dramatic posturing. ‘Fenris does not command the 24th.’

  ‘Then who will?’ Jack’s tone was belligerent. He had endured enough of the major’s games.

  ‘You. You will command them.’

  ‘Me!’ Jack was genuinely astonished.

  ‘As of this moment I am promoting you. You are to be Captain Lark. The 24th are yours.’

  Jack blinked hard. ‘I thought I was to hang?’

  Proudfoot smiled. For the first time Jack saw some warmth make its way into the major’s eyes. ‘That was before. This is now. I want you to command the 24th. You are the best man for the job. You proved that today.’

  Jack laughed. He threw back his head and guffawed, careless of the men who turned to stare at the madman hooting so loudly.

  ‘Do you accept?’ Proudfoot chuckled, joining in Jack’s mirth.

  ‘Oh yes. I accept.’ Jack slipped from the wall and walked to stand in front of the major.

  ‘Then you will be wanting this.’ Proudfoot pulled open his cloak. For the first time Jack saw that he was wearing a sword.

  His sword.

  He watched, his heart hammering in his mouth, as Proudfoot undid the buckles that held the scabbard around his waist. It was only when the major handed him the fabulous weapon that he realised how much he had missed it since it had been taken from him when he had first been arrested. He had never owned anything of such extraordinary value, yet it was not the wealth it gave him that he had missed.

  He had been awarded the sword for his bravery. He had not bought it. He had not taken it. He had earned it.

  Jack took a step backwards and carefully, reverentially, buckled the slings of the scabbard to the belt around his waist.

  He was a captain. This time he hadn’t stolen the rank. It had been granted freely. He was an officer. It might only be temporary and out of convenience, but it did not matter. He had been a maharajah’s general, then a British redcoat. Now, for the first time, he was Captain Jack Lark. Perhaps it would only be for a matter of hours, but Jack did not care. He would lead the 24th into battle, and he vowed he would not let them down.

  The noise started just before dawn. The impenetrable blackness of the night still wrapped its heavy arms around the tired redcoats in Dutton’s temporary fortress when the wild blare of trumpets split the quietness asunder.

  The sounds rose in a crescendo, the chaotic medley denying the defenders the sanctuary of sleep. Underscoring the frenzied orchestra was the deep, visceral chanting of hundreds of voices, which came and went in waves of sound, throbbing and pulsating with a nerve-jangling tremor.

  The violence in the air was palpable, and every redcoat shivered as they listened to the mob that had arrived and was now preparing for the battle to come.

  The defenders greeted the dreadful cacophony in silence. Each man was left alone with his fears, forced to endure the last of t
he night wrestling with his demons unaided. It was the time for silent prayer and superstitious ritual. For each redcoat to find a way to face the peril they knew would come with the dawn.

  ‘Stand to!’ The two surviving buglers sounded the rising notes as the first enemy troops were sighted. The defenders took their places in the bayonet-tipped perimeter, which would have to stand firm if they were to survive the day.

  Dutton’s sepoys manned the outer wall. Just under one hundred and fifty men had answered the roll call in the cold air before sunrise, less than half of the three companies left after the previous day’s massacre. Their ranks had been swelled by a number of servants who had stayed loyal to their masters and who had been given hasty lessons in how to reload a musket. The extra bodies and the shortness of the perimeter allowed Dutton to keep back fifty men, whom he organised into a flying column, ready to pounce on any part of the wall that started to give way.

  The 24th were left to defend their barracks and the storerooms that formed the easternmost wall. The long, airy barrack block had been transformed into a stronghold, allowing the redcoats to bring as many guns as possible to bear on the narrow pathway that made straight for the pair of wide double doors facing the east. Any attack on this side of the fortress could be made under cover, the attackers only having to break into the open when they were no more than fifteen to twenty yards away. The 24th would have to fight the Maharajah’s men in bloody hand-to-hand combat, the power of their muskets diminished by the lack of an open field of fire.

  The rest of the cantonment’s population was crammed into the largest room in the 24th’s barracks that did not have a wall or window facing to the east. There the wives, children and clerks would have to endure the battle, sweltering in the heat as they willed the defenders to hold out.

  It was a time for prayers, for the faithful to beseech their God with pleas for deliverance. It was a time for hopes to dwindle and for men to place their faith in seventeen inches of cold steel.

  Jack peered out of the window. The fresh breeze was cool against his skin, the layer of grime and sweat congealing to leave his face feeling as stiff as dried parchment. The bugles were calling for the defenders to be ready, the first sighting of the enemy stirring Dutton’s men into action. The proud notes sounded defiant, the clear rising call a challenge to the bewildering hubbub that summoned the Maharajah’s men to readiness.

  ‘Hold your fire.’ Jack pulled back from the window and walked down the centre of the barracks. He had over half his men at the eastern wall, their bayonet-tipped muskets pointing out of the windows or loopholes, ready to fire as soon as the first enemy soldier dared to show his face. He had stationed another fifteen on the roof to act as sharpshooters under the command of Colour Sergeant Hughes; he hoped they would be able to fire down on to the heads of any enemy troops milling around outside the barracks. The final dozen waited as a reserve, ready to plug the inevitable gaps, Jack’s final throw of the dice should the Maharajah’s men force a breach in his defences.

  ‘Shoot the bastards in the guts.’ Jack stalked behind the men pressed to the wall. ‘Make them bleed.’ He offered his advice in the even tones of an instructor on the firing range, as if they faced stuffed woollen dummies rather than men bent on their destruction. ‘The more you kill, the fewer you will have to fight.’

  He caught the eye of Corporal Jones. The Welshman stood at the head of Jack’s flying squad, looking as composed as if the 24th faced nothing more than a routine drill.

  ‘Be ready for my signal, Corporal.’

  ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’ Jones risked a smile. ‘Feels right to call you “sir” again, sir.’

  Jack paused in his pacing. ‘Thank you, Corporal. I’ll do my best not to be a cock.’

  Corporal Jones coloured as the other redcoats smiled at Jack’s choice of language. Jack looked into the eyes of the men now under his command. He saw their fear, the waiting pulling at their courage. But he recognised their determination to get the job done. His hand fell to the talwar at his hip. He ran his fingers over the coarse sharkskin grip, the knowledge that he would soon draw the blade in anger for the first time adding to his own anxiety. On his other hip he could feel the reassuring weight of his revolver. He had borrowed the gun from Major Dutton, unwilling to fight without one. He was still dressed in the red coat of a private soldier but now he at least carried the weapons of an officer. Like his men, he was prepared to fight.

  ‘Sir! Here they come!’

  Jack whirled on the spot. ‘Company! Ready!’

  He shouted the needless order, his men already bracing themselves for the attack. Those stationed at the windows and loopholes pulled their muskets into their shoulders, aiming the weapons outside. The men in the flying squad hefted their muskets, or reached for their bayonets, reassuring themselves that the seventeen inches of steel was attached securely.

  The tramp of footsteps rolled down the pathway that led away from the barracks. It was the rhythmic thump of men marching in formation, the regular tempo of disciplined troops manoeuvring into position.

  ‘Prepare to fire!’ Jack peered anxiously into the bright sunlight. The path was empty but he knew the enemy was close. He let his hand fall to his hip, undoing the flap of his holster so he could withdraw the heavy revolver. The solid lump of metal was cold to his touch, but it felt good to have the weapon in his hand.

  The pounding stopped. The ears of every man stationed in the barracks strained to hear the sound of the attack beginning. The red-coated soldiers waited anxiously, their nerves screwed to fever pitch as they endured the last moments of peace. Loud voices echoed around the remains of the cantonment, the last shouted orders as the defenders prepared for the assault.

  Yet not one enemy soldier was in sight.

  Jack could barely breathe as he stared out of the barracks window. He could sense the enemy soldiers were close by, but they remained stubbornly out of view.

  ‘Come on now. This ain’t bleeding fair.’ The redcoat to Jack’s right muttered the words under his breath as he continued to peer down the barrel of his musket.

  ‘They’re coming.’ Jack reached out and patted the redcoat on the shoulder. He pulled back and quickly moved to a window near the centre of the barracks, seeing if the new viewpoint would reveal the enemy.

  Nothing.

  And then they appeared.

  They came in a rush. One moment the pathway was empty; a heartbeat later, the enemy infantry rushed forward, erupting around the corner in a wild mob.

  ‘Company!’ Jack’s voice was steady despite his heart hammering in his chest. He had a moment to realise that the men swarming towards the 24th’s barracks were dressed in the splendid red and blue uniform of the Maharajah’s guards, the familiar sight sending a tremor of guilt through his soul. ‘Fire!’

  The muskets fired in unison. The enemy were close enough for Jack to hear the grotesque sound of the balls slapping into living flesh, followed by the screams of those struck down.

  There was no time for the men to reload before the enemy reached the walls, and for a dreadful second there was silence as the appalled redcoats witnessed the destructive power of their volley at such close range. The musket balls had cut a bloody swathe through the leading ranks. Many guardsmen had been struck by more than one bullet, their bodies shredded by the disciplined fire. Dozens of the enemy had been cut down, the storm of musket fire gutting the attack.

  Jack nearly choked on the foul-smelling powder smoke that filled the room, his eyes watering as the rotten egg stench filled his mouth and nose.

  ‘Kill them!’ He screamed the order, breaking the spell that the sudden lull had cast over the redcoats. Through the smoke he could see the enemy charging at the walls, the Maharajah’s best soldiers clambering over the dead and the dying, callous in their desire to reach the hated redcoats.

  The men Jack had station
ed on the roof opened fire as the enemy stormed forward. He could hear Hughes marking the targets for his sharpshooters. Half a dozen of the blue-coated guardsmen fell to the well-directed fire, their bodies tumbling to the ground, trampled underneath the boots of their fellows.

  The first enemy soldier reached the wall. His talwar keened as it sliced through the air, the man behind the blade screaming like a fiend as he tried to strike at the redcoats who waited behind the window.

  The killing began.

  More and more of the enemy pressed up to the windows. Blade after blade was thrust forward, reaching for the flesh of the defiant redcoats. A dozen or more guardsmen packed against each of the openings. Each rammed his weapon forward, striving to be the first to break into the heart of the foreigners’ stronghold.

  The redcoats held their ground. Time and time again they punched their bayonets forward, using the point of the vicious seventeen-inch blade just as they had been taught on the drill square. They plied their trade with dreadful effect, taking advantage of the height of their position to hack down at the faces of the enemy horde. The men at the loopholes loaded as quickly as they could before thrusting their weapons out once more, the cough of their muskets cracking out every few moments.

  ‘Hold them! Hold them!’ Jack screamed his encouragement, his voice straining with the effort.

  More of the enemy were falling to the shots coming from the roof. Hughes was controlling his sharpshooters well, directing an effective fire that was striking man after man from the Maharajah’s ranks. Still they pressed forward, ignoring the dead and the dying underneath their boots, the ruined bodies trodden thoughtlessly into the dust as the guardsmen strove to batter their way into the barracks.

  The redcoats were fighting hard but the enemy were relentless. Each redcoat faced a dozen blades. As quickly as they struck one man down, another two took his place. Sharp talwars were thrust forward from every direction and the redcoats were reduced to a desperate defence as they were forced to block again and again, the enemy blades reaching for them with dreadful persistence.