Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘It often seems to,’ replied Tom, ‘though I’m thinking it’ll be more in the mind than in the fact of it.’

  The formalities of the British weather out of the way, they began to discuss the grotesque iron claw in the vice. Crossman told Tom, not without some pride, that he had had to make his own nuts and bolts.

  ‘There were none this small manufactured.’

  But they needed more hands than one to tighten them.

  ‘If you could just grip the bolt heads with this spanner, Tom, while I turn the nuts, I would appreciate the assistance.’

  ‘Maybe, sir, it would be better round the other way. You take the bolt heads, while I tighten the nuts, me having the stronger arm.’

  ‘Oh, and what makes you think that?’

  ‘What, that I’m the stronger, sir? Oh, well, I’ve only been at manual work for all my life, that’s all. Now you’re going to say to me when I was in the Crimea . . .’

  ‘No I’m not, Tom. I promised Betty I would henceforth keep my silence on that phrase.’

  ‘Well, some-at like it, at any rate. Fact is, sir, I’m the labouring man here, and you’re the army officer. I’m the one who turns nuts and if there’s nobody else in the region, you’re the one who holds the bolt heads. That’s how the world works, an’t it? Or have I missed my station, sir?’

  ‘Tom, if you worked for anyone else you’d be given notice for impertinence.’

  Tom smiled the rugged smile of an older man who felt he was dealing with a pubescent youth trying to assert himself.

  ‘That’s as maybe, sir, but then I work for the Kirks, and they’ve always been somewhat more lenient, as they say. Even your father, hard man though he was, could take more than your average gentleman by way of advice, when it came to matters of expert.’

  ‘Yes, but that was before I made these nuts and bolts. I am no longer an apprentice, Tom. I have served my term.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows so that they almost touched the rim of his cap.

  ‘Ah,’ said Crossman, ‘you think that is for you to decide, being the man of trade, so to speak.’

  The eyebrows came down to form part of a smile.

  ‘I shall hold the bolt heads, then, and you shall turn the nuts,’ Crossman finally agreed.

  Later, they fitted the invention to the stump. The fingers were worked by a series of levers fitted to thin metal pipes. The pipes themselves went up to a unit which nestled in Crossman’s armpit. This underarm device was a hollow rubber ball which, when pressure was applied by Crossman’s upper arm against his chest, forced air down the tubes. The air pressure was converted to mechanical movement at a point near the elbow, forcing levers to open the metal fingers, or close them into a locked position.

  If the fingers were in the locked position Crossman had to slip a catch on the back of the mechanical grab with his good right hand, but that was the only time assistance was required from anything else but the hollow rubber ball. It was a crude tool, this metal hand, but it seemed to work. Crossman gripped a sickle in that fist and wielded it like a sword, easily severing the tops from several winter cabbages. Once it had locked it was the devil to get it unlocked however, if his real fingers were frozen cold.

  ‘Just don’t shake hands with this thing,’ muttered Tom, making some minor adjustments, ‘or you’ll start a man’s eyes from his head.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom. I shall have to remember not to grip articles which might give under the pressure. Thin wine glasses, ladies’ hats, small dogs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Especially small dogs.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Tom’s genius came to the fore in fitting the device. It was Tom who invented the complex web of straps – the ‘harness’ as he called it – which enabled the metal appendage not only to be attached to the lieutenant’s body, but to remain comfortable for many hours. Crossman had anticipated sores and sweat bands, but these did not arrive. There were of course marks, but nothing exceptional, nothing too serious. Crossman was really pleased with the hand. He told himself he might even get rid of the nickname ‘Fancy Jack’ now that he had this machine fitted to his wrist.

  ‘Iron-hand, that’s what I shall be know as in future,’ he muttered. ‘Iron-hand, or Iron-fist. More fitting for a married man than Fancy Jack, which smacks of the beau monde.’

  That evening Crossman was burning the midnight oil. He was studying the languages of Hindi and Pashto, with a little Urdu ‘for dessert’. It was something that came to him easily, learning foreign tongues. Not many things did. He found it strange that he enjoyed such study, because he was not particularly proficient in the structure and grammar of the English language and had no desire to write any kind of book, or even read one unless it be instructive in some way. Figures were closer to his heart than letters: mathematical problems came easier than essays. Yet he had this power to unravel and retain the puzzles and complexities of an alien language. This was a mystery to him. He could only deduce that learning languages was akin to calculating. That seemed to him the only answer.

  The following morning a letter arrived for him from Jane. She told him first how much she missed him and that she had to see him one more time before he left for India, if that was possible. Then she went on to tell him the family news. Her father’s condition remained stable but his general health was still a cause for much concern. Although he was appreciative of her presence it seemed it was expected of her to be there, at his side, even though she now had responsibilities elsewhere. Fathers like Jane’s did not let go of their daughters easily. While Mulinder liked his son-in-law, Jack was a newcomer to the family and could not possibly have precedence over someone like a father, who had been the main male figure in Jane’s life from as far back as the cradle. That was Mr Mulinder’s opinion for the present and it would remain so for a long time to come.

  9

  It is difficult to do things in private when men are thrown together in a camp. There are eyes everywhere. There is always someone at your elbow, no matter how much space is available. A few men do not mind it at all, most find it at some time an irksome aspect of army life. To escape the myriad body sounds, from fart to belch; the stink of armpits, bad breath, fetid socks; the inane incessant moaning of the complainer; these and all the other aspects of army life: this is a forlorn dream in a camp. Jack Crossman would have liked a very private room to fit his equipment, but in fact he had to do it out in the open, to avoid catching the canvas of his tent and damaging it with the metal parts of his aparatus.

  Thus he stood in his undershirt, struggling to get the thing over his shoulder, with its wires and metal strips, padding and more chunky metal parts, while others pretended not to watch at first. Yet as the operation progressed and their leader got into more and more difficulties, Asian and European alike stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. The Indians were wide-eyed with curiosity at this machine the British officer was trying to strap to himself. They shook their heads at each other and whispered, asking if their neighbour knew what was going on. Is it a weapon? they asked one another. Is it some form of self-punishment? What is it?

  Finally Crossman yelled, ‘Well help me Gwilliams! And what the hell are you lot gawking at? Get back to your duties. Have you nothing better to do than watch a man dress himself? Away with you.’

  The watchers scuttled this way and that, looking for something on which to place their idle hands, but not failing to continue to stare from beneath an arm or from around the edge of a tent.

  ‘Stand still, dammit sir, I’m doing my best here.’

  Gwilliams finally got his officer into the harness and tightened the straps. Crossman tested his machine. It clacked and clicked in the correct places, like a mechanical lobster on the end of his arm. The Asians were bug-eyed now. The camp dog, startled by the demonstration, ran away and hid under a blanket. The lieutenant thanked his aide and now felt more than a little pleased with himself. But his pleasure was short-lived. The sun heated the metal claw until it burned
into his stump. There had been no thought of the heat and cold when it was being made. The temperature had not been taken into account. Now, if he accidentally touched the artificial hand on some unprotected part of his body, it seared the flesh. He decided, in the end, to go without either wood or metal, and to hell with the ungentlemanly image. He pinned the bottom of his sleeve to itself and left it at that.

  My Dearest Darling, he wrote that night, I am a comedy act for my men, who think me quite the biggest fool they have met in many a year . . .

  The caravan continued its northward trek, into the heart of Rajputana. They went through valleys littered with babul trees, covered in long wicked thorns and wound about by tumbo creepers. The game in these valleys was wide and varied. Sambar deer let out high, trumpet-sounding calls when approached. Herds of chinkara were flushed into the clear on hearing them coming and chital deer, sleek and handsome, shot out into open meadows. Gwilliams found a rock python with a yet undigested mammal in its gut, sunning itself in its bloated condition, not a care in the world except man. Once, they glimpsed a female panther with two cubs, wandering out of the long grass to claw at the trunk of a tree, her interest in humans nil.

  The minister, John Stillwell, continued to be a nuisance.

  Stillwell was inclined to burst in on Crossman in his tent without announcing himself first and without waiting to be asked to enter. On one occasion Jack was having his spine walked by his bone manipulator, Gwilliams. The officer was lying stripped to the waist, face down, on the hard floor of his tent, trying to ignore the ants which trotted happily over his sweaty torso, while the corporal stepped up and down his back, using hard horny feet to massage the lieutenant’s spine, when Stillwell suddenly threw back the flap and entered the space within.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ began the minister, ‘I wonder . . .’ The intruder stopped in mid-sentence and stared. Then he said, ‘I do beg thy pardon,’ and left very quickly, probably convinced he had just interrupted one of those pagan rites which should never be witnessed by a man of God.

  Gwilliams roared with laughter and would have jumped in the air in glee if he had not still been standing on his commanding officer’s back.

  Following this incident Stillwell showed he was capable of exhibiting his own eccentricities, unbecoming of a Victorian gentleman.

  One evening Jack was enjoying the last shades of day, sitting on a knoll and viewing a glorious sunset such as had never touched a British sky. It was so vast, and of such colours – red, black, turquoise, blue, yellow, pink, mauve, purple – that it filled his heart with unfathomable yearnings. Such beauty, such magnificence, was only possible in tropical skies.

  While Jack was sitting there, he became aware of a presence. Stillwell had joined him, sitting down next to him. Yet Crossman saw that the minister was completely naked except for his shoes and hat. Crossman was no prude but he was concerned about the Asians, who were prim about showing genitalia. They did not even take off their loincloths to wash. They would surely be upset by the sight of this hippopotamus walking around nude.

  ‘Sir, you have no clothes on. You look ridiculous.’

  ‘The human form is divine, Lieutenant,’ grunted Stillwell, engrossed in the sunset. ‘God made it in his own image and I’m sure thee do not mean to insult the Lord. I find it very cooling to shed my attire in the early evening. I say, look at that cloud! Does it not remind thee of an elephant?’ The minister pointed. ‘And how mellow are those hues. God’s hand sir, has been liberal with the paintbrush this evening. The Almighty has dipped into the palette of heaven and produced a masterpiece.’

  ‘And you smell,’ said Crossman. ‘Quite offensively.’

  ‘My embrocation, Lieutenant. It’s quite innocuous, I assure thee. It has buffalo wax in it, which is probably the odour you refer to. I need to smear myself once every three days, or my skin produces a rash between my legs and under my arms, not to mention between my fingers and toes. The creases of the body, sir, need to be attended. A Chinese gentleman in Bombay sold me the grease, which works very well. If ever thee need some, thee only have to ask. I shall be happy to let thee dip into the jar.’ Stillwell then stood up and said with some dignity. ‘However, I can see my presence disturbs thee, Lieutenant. I shall take my body elsewhere.’

  The minister began to step out, walking into the darkness that was sweeping in rapidly. Crossman was suddenly concerned that Stillwell would get lost, or be bitten by something dangerous. He warned the minister to stay close to the camp and advised him to take a weapon.

  Stillwell held up his right hand, in which he grasped a black book.

  ‘I have my weapon, sir, and God help those against whom it is used. They will have to face the Thunder of the Captains, and the Shouting. The able Job will assist me in smiting my enemies. Good evening, sir.’

  With that, the minister strode out. Much to Crossman’s surprise, he returned later, unharmed but complaining of insect bites.

  ‘The balm attracts them,’ he explained to Gwilliams as he stood gesturing, his white body stark in the firelight, ‘and I have no answer to them. I now have more spots than a stippled trout. More insect marks than the freckles on the sergeant’s face. May they be damned, Corporal, for their unwanted attentions. They are the devil’s creatures, sir, not the Lord’s. They have been manufactured in hell and released to give us but a taste of its eternal tortures. They are demons in miniature. I abhor them.’

  When Crossman neared Jaipur he sent an Indian runner ahead to request permission to enter the city. Later, he received word back from the Chandra Mahal, the Moon Palace where Maharajah Ram Singh II was in residence. He was welcome and was to present himself to the maharajah on arrival in the city. This was a daunting prospect. The ruler was a powerful man: the monarch of a great state. If Crossman did or said anything at which offence might be taken he would be in serious trouble. Ibhanan had said that Rajputana had never been conquered – not by the Mughals nor any who followed – and the Rajputs were a proud warrior race. Crossman was still not totally au fait with the customs and manners of the country and it would be easy to make a blunder.

  ‘Sergeant King will accompany me,’ he told Gwilliams, ‘while you remain with Ibhanan and the other men.’

  ‘Oh, I savvy. I’m not good enough to meet this maharajah fellah, bein’ as I’m a rough man from the Americas.’

  Crossman sighed. ‘That’s not it at all. I need someone back here I can trust. The sergeant won’t meet the ruler either. He’ll go as far the palace gates with me as my escort. I’m the only one who’s going to be presented to the maharajah. Now, Corporal, will you help me with my uniform? I must go in all my gold braid with my best sword. Is the white lace still white, we ask? What about the shako badge? Are the gilt and silver stars still gleaming? If they aren’t, we must set to and polish them up a little, so they shine like real stars. And we must brush that red coat till it looks like new . . .’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ muttered Gwilliams, beginning to unpack the precious uniform, ‘you’ll look fine and dandy for the maharajah. Now, you’ll need to take a gift. They expect it, these people. What about the jewelled dagger we found on that bandito we kilt, back there on the trail? The one Ibhanan calls a tiger dagger, with the handle shaped like a haitch, which you grip by the crossbar.’

  ‘I was hoping to take that home.’

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ else here worth a damn.’

  ‘You’re right, there isn’t. Now, will I fit into this thing any better now? It was a little tight for me last time I tried it on, after several Christmas plum puddings and roast beef lunches . . .’

  Indeed, he found he fitted into the uniform with ease, having lost some considerable weight since arriving in India.

  The middle-aged maharajah was a good English speaker. He turned out to be almost ordinary and while Crossman drank tea and ate sweetmeats with him, the ruler professed to be very fond of ‘English jokes’. He asked Crossman to tell him some. There is nothing so difficult as having to tell jo
kes on demand: even natural comics have been known to dry up at such a request. The lieutenant had to dredge his mind for humorous tales heard in the mess in Bombay. His delivery was not good, his punch lines faltered, but still he managed to amuse the great ruler with his stories. The maharajah then asked him what was the symbol on his cap badge. Was it the many-stringed bow of an English warrior, who could fire as many arrows as the number of strings at one release?

  Crossman told him gravely that it was an Irish harp and then suddenly realized that the ‘warrior’s bow’ had been a maharajah’s English joke, and rather too late the lieutenant roared with false mirth.

  The subject then switched quickly to mapmaking. Ram Singh was curious about Crossman’s hand. Where did he lose it and how did it affect his mapmaking work? He told the maharajah that his hand still resided on the Crimean peninsula and that he managed as best he could without it. His Highness’s questions then became more searching, requiring a depth of knowledge the lieutenant did not have. Crossman now had a flutter of panic and wished he had paid more attention to his sergeant’s chattering, for he was being asked questions that he should know, if he were a surveyor.

  ‘Do you prefer the octant or the sextant, Lieutenant? Which is the most accurate for your purposes of producing maps?’

  ‘Er, the sextant, Your Highness.’

  ‘This is the better instrument of the two?’

  ‘Oh, oh yes, by far. But of course we look mostly to the theodolite for our calculations, with its spyglass, compass and spirit level.’ Crossman felt pleased with himself. He had been looking at just that instrument not four hours previously. ‘That’s the device we rely on most when producing our maps.’

  ‘But the theodolite, my dear Lieutenant, is used for non-astronomical angle measurements, while the sextant and octant – and of course the old quadrant, quite an ancient device now . . .’ he laughed and Crossman laughed hollowly along with him ‘. . . are for determining the angular elevations of heavenly bodies.’