Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Raktambar looked at the officer darkly.

  ‘It uses the cartridges with grease.’

  Crossman frowned, remembering the murderer in Chundore market had said something similar. ‘Yes, the cartridges are greased with tallow. And what of it? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I have heard about this. The rifles are not good. I will not fire your rifle. I have my own. Please do not bother me with this, sahib. Know that I will never use this Enfield. I will use my own rifle. It is a good rifle. Listen, sahib,’ he said, sitting on the stone flags of the courtyard. ‘Please sit with me and talk. I will tell you about Rajputs. Please, sit.’

  Crossman was in an undershirt, but he sensed an opportunity to get closer to Raktambar and learn something of the man. So, to the amazement of King’s chain-men and perambulator-wallahs he too sat crosslegged on the hard stone floor. The chai man who was passing by saw an opportunity not to be missed and provided both men with a cup of tea. They sat there, impassively for a while, until Crossman prompted the other man.

  ‘So,’ he said, gently, ‘tell me about Rajputs.’

  ‘Sahib, I am a Rajput, a very proud race. You might say that all races are proud and you would be right. The Englishman is proud. The Pathan is proud. The Bengali is proud – perhaps not so proud as the Rajput – but proud just the same. We have our honour. Honour is the most important thing in the whole world. Men live for it, men die for it. Rajput means “son of king” which is what all my people are – sons of kings. We are a warrior caste who prefer to die on the battlefield than live a life of dishonour. The Mughals did not defeat us, nor the British. We are Rajputs.’

  ‘Yes, but Raktambar . . .’

  ‘No, sahib, you must listen. I am not one of your soldiers, to be ordered to be silent. I have been given by the maharajah to watch over you. I must tell you the Rajputs are not concerned with victory on the battlefield. No. They are concerned by bravery only. And they will fight for five things. The first is to protect the kingdom. This I will do. The second is for my religion. Yes? The third is to right any wrongs. The fourth is for women and the fifth is for cows.’

  ‘Cows?’

  ‘Yes, for cows. Now, I have given my word to protect you, sahib, while you stay here in India. This I will do, but only because of my word you understand. I do not like you. You are a firinghi. I am an Indian. This is not said often to the British, but I must tell you. Since you are also a Christian you are therefore a Mleccha – an untouchable. I am of the Ksatriya caste. That is a very noble caste, sahib. It must not be corrupted.’

  ‘I understand that – I know that. I wouldn’t wish to corrupt you.’

  ‘Good, then we understand one another.’ The Rajput stood up. ‘I am glad, sahib, that we have had this talk.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Crossman, really not comprehending why he felt so relieved. ‘Very glad.’

  He stood up and walked back to his room. There he stood for a few moments in the shafts of sunlight that poured through the window. Outside the world was awakening. Smells of dung and cooking were coming through the open window. Three elephants were passing along the track, one of them making snuffling noises with its trunk. Somewhere cymbals were being played, probably in a temple. There was the clatter of pots and pans, the grumbling of dogs, the snort of camels. Chatter from the local children reached up to his window and entered the room. A woman screamed at an ox, trying to get it to move from her vegetable patch.

  ‘The rifle,’ said Crossman to himself. ‘What about the rifle?’

  He had just learned that he was not personally liked, that his race was despised by the Indians, that he was an untouchable, that his new bodyguard couldn’t give a damn about him. He had just been told all these things, his gift of a rifle refused – God only knew why – and he had come away from the conversation, the telling, with a smile on his face. No wonder the Indians thought the British were stupid. They were stupid.

  The party remained all that day and the next in the quarters at Amber which had been given to them by the maharajah. Crossman was very reluctant to move. Beyond the small hills of Jaipur lay the wide dusty plains of Rajputana. Their journey so far had seen all three soldiers gather suntans to themselves. Gwilliams never took off his shirt, so he was probably as white underneath as when he started. Crossman and King, however, quite often exposed their bare upper bodies to the sun. They were becoming acclimatized to the temperature as well. Not so long ago they would have been gasping like stranded fish in the midday heat, but now they could actually move around and do things, physical tasks.

  Crossman was lying on his bed writing in his official journal, the one Lovelace told him to keep in code. There was not a great deal to write. He had seen only one band of dissidents and that was the group that had attacked him and his men. There was this business of the two travelling chapattis, being passed from village to village. What was all that about? A signal of some kind? The mystery of the travelling chapattis which was something Lovelace would have liked solved was still a great secret. Crossman had talked with Ibhanan, his chain-men and others of the party and they confessed themselves to be just as ignorant as he was himself. That was not to say that they were, of course, for they might be lying or at least reluctant to reveal things.

  However, there were indications of unrest amongst the Indians, which had been hinted at both by peasant and king. Crossman also believed he sensed an underlying disturbance in the mood of those natives he met. But it was difficult for him to gauge the nuances, being a newcomer to India. He was still coming to terms with an alien culture which was incredibly complex and complicated. There were thousands of castes and subcastes about which Crossman knew nothing, nothing at all. Only the other day he had mistaken a bindi mark for a caste mark. There was a multitude of languages, some of them tribal, others national. There were the several religions, perhaps more than several, only two of which he could understand. Not only that, there were different ethnic groups and clans, some of them mixed, others determined to remain aloof and ‘pure’. There were strange men who travelled as priests, yet were not true holy men, along with whirling dervishes and hermits and troglodytes and myriad other homeless beings. In a land such as this, where everything was strange, it was no wonder that Crossman had difficulty in gauging such things as a mood among men.

  Yet, he felt there was something there. It was as if he were a fish and he sensed ripples passing over the surface of the water. Something was bothering most of the local people with whom he came into contact. They were in some cases unnaturally aggressive and rude. He had been treated with great kindness by those Indians he knew, yet strangers had called him names and verbally abused him without reason or provocation. He knew this was not normal, that Europeans were not ordinarily subject to such taunts, from the embarrassment of his carriers. If this had been common behaviour, the Indians in his party would not show they were shamed by it.

  ‘Lieutenant, I believe this is where thee and I part company. We have had our differences, but I hold no grudges. The Lord insists on forgiveness and I extend mine to thee. Shall I leave thee some of my embrocation?’

  Jack looked up from his writing to see John Stillwell standing in the doorway to his room. The man was just tall and wide enough to fit the doorway perfectly. A fly could not pass by him.

  ‘Er, no – that won’t be necessary.’

  ‘As you wish, as you wish. But please don’t blame me in my absence if thee has an attack of the prickly heat or some other horrible skin rash. We tender-skinned British are prone to such, as thee know. Our bodies are not fashioned for the heat and dust of India.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind.’

  ‘And Lieutenant, when and if thee ever get to Delhi, please look me up. I am a member of the Delhi Mutton Club and will gladly take thee along as a guest.’

  ‘The Mutton Club? I don’t think I’ve heard of it. Is it similar to White’s?’

  Stillwell laughed. ‘Not at all like a London club. It’s the sharing of a roasted
sheep carcass. A kind of social gathering to devour meat which reminds us of home. Of course, in an English town or country village, we would follow it with an apple pie, but the only apples thee will get here, my friend, are custard-apples, a poor substitute for the real thing.’

  ‘I see. Yes, thank you. And you are taking the road north-east?’

  ‘Yes. I am sufficiently rested now to continue my journey to Delhi. I thank thee for allowing me to join your party. I hope I have not been too much trouble.’

  ‘No, no,’ lied Crossman, who had found the minister a source of great irritation, ‘you’ve been the model passenger.’

  ‘Well, sir, I hope my prayers have assisted us in reaching this point and I will endeavour to continue to place thy welfare in front of the Lord. Thee will agree I’m sure that such requests can do no harm, even if the intended recipient is a non-believer.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say I was an atheist nor even an agnostic, sir. I simply don’t proclaim my beliefs to the world.’

  ‘Ah, then thou art a good Christian.’

  ‘I didn’t say that either.’

  Stillwell shook his head.

  ‘Thou insists on remaining enigmatic, Lieutenant. Well, that’s thy right, I suppose. A man true to his beliefs would shout it from the rooftops, but perhaps thou art one of the quiet men of faith? Perhaps thee moves like the Lord, in mysterious ways, yet underneath are quietly as firm as a rock in thy following of Christ?’

  Crossman lost patience with this raven-like man.

  ‘Stillwell, I’m an assassin. I couldn’t in truth be both slayer and a good man, now could I? It wouldn’t fit.’

  The minister stared at Crossman for a long while. It seemed he was trying to gauge whether the lieutenant was joking or not. When the minister decided that the remark was serious he gathered even more gravity to himself and with solemn words pronounced that Crossman was a lost soul.

  ‘Indeed I am and have no wish to be found.’

  ‘I shall still pray for thee, sir,’ cried the minister, leaving the doorway free for the hot air and flies to enter again. ‘Thee can be sure of that.’

  Crossman watched him go, the lines of a recently written poem which Jane had read to him leapt to his mind.

  If the red slayer think he slays,

  Or if the slain think he is slain,

  They know not well the subtle ways

  I keep, and pass, and turn again.

  The title of the poem was Brahma by an American called Emerson and Crossman was inclined to think it must have come out of an Indian experience. One further line had haunted the lieutenant ever since he had heard it fall from Jane’s sweet lips.

  And one to me are shame and fame.

  The spy, the assassin, the gatherer and sower of information, drew both in equal quantities to himself. His fame was amongst his peers and he was admired for all the wrong things. His shame was within himself and it flourished there with every deed or action that drew fame. One day, Crossman knew, that shame and fame would mingle and become lost in one another, and he – poor man – would not be able to tell them apart.

  The pen began to scratch on the page once again, the wrist-stump holding the book still enough to write in.

  Now there was Gwilliams there. ‘When are we movin’ on, sir? Ain’t you getting kinda bored here? I am.’

  The pen was placed carefully down in the crease between the two sides of the journal.

  ‘Tomorrow, I think, Corporal. How are you bearing up? Is India all you expected?’

  ‘Between cockroaches the size of bats and red ants that bite great lumps out of your ass, yeah, pretty much as I thought.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘My favourite place, bar none. Hows about you? You happy with the way things are turning?’

  ‘So far we’ve all three managed to avoid malaria, typhoid, yellow fever and a host of other illnesses. No one has managed to put a knife or bullet in us. I think we’re doing pretty well. All we’ve got are sore feet at the moment. Are the horses refreshed?’

  ‘All except that lame mare which I had to put down – I got us a new one, but she ain’t a patch on the old. There’s good horses hereabouts, but you can’t lay your hands on ’em. The only thing for sale is nags.’

  ‘We’ll make do.’

  A lizard – a gecko – ran across Crossman’s book, pale and with eyes like large black beads.

  ‘Smudged my ink, you little beast,’ murmured the lieutenant. ‘All right, Corporal, yes we’ll move on in the morning. I’ll check the provisions and stores tonight, just in case we’ve forgotten anything. That flour which we bought in the market is full of weevils, by the way. It seems that you can’t buy maize flour which isn’t, so we’ll have to pick them out of our bread, or add them to our meat ration.’

  ‘The local eggs smell bad too, when you break ’em in the pan,’ said Gwilliams, ‘but I don’t think they’s rotten eggs. It’s just the way eggs is out here. Got us a case of pullets, for fresh fowl on the road. Bananas, but no oranges. Dates and stuff. Mangoes, guavas. Lots of dried peas. Little itty-bitty peas that you make up in a mash. No potatoes. I took the liberty of drying and salting some of that mare. Horse meat does in times when you ain’t shot deer nor gazelle. Some nuts. I bought some nuts. And some beets that look like turnips, only they ain’t.’

  ‘Good, sounds as though we’re well provided for, Corporal. I’ll still have a look myself, in the morning. What about the Indians? Most of them don’t eat meat, you know. Have we plenty of vegetables? They like their spices too . . .’

  ‘Ibhanan’s doing the buying for them.’

  ‘Good, good. What can I say, you work wonders, Gwilliams. Now, a haircut would be fine, and possibly a shave if you wouldn’t mind. This beard’s starting to itch like hell.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for – that’s my trade.’

  ‘Just imagine I’m wild Kit Carson,’ said Crossman, remembering one of the names that Gwilliams bandied about, ‘and you want me to look like your President.’

  ‘Slick you up, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  Later, all slicked up, Crossman went out to check the livestock. The camels seemed happy enough, staring at him with big eyes while they chewed. He was reminded of Betsy, the camel he had requisitioned in order to have a zumbooruck in the Crimea. She had eyes just like these two. The horses seemed fine now. It was a shame about the mare, Bathsheba, but apparently she had not departed from them completely. She had been a good ride and now they would dine on her at some time in the future. Finally, Crossman checked on the dog that Sergeant King had found and cleaned of ticks, so that the beast could keep the camp clear of scavenger birds. There were buzzards and kites that descended upon anything that even looked like food and bothered the horses and camels. The hound, which always looked tired and miserable unless it was chasing and scattering feathered creatures, seemed in reasonable health, and had been fed and watered.

  As he was leaving the stables Crossman saw a trio of women passing by. As always he admired their colourful saris, which were in stark contrast to the dismal red-brown brickwork of the party’s quarters. They were chattering, the women, as they went through a rusted iron gate that hung from one hinge, into a walled garden. One of the women, the middle one, looked back at Crossman and suddenly glared at him. He straightened under the baleful eyes, wondering whether it was because he was a European. Then, through the opening of the gateway, he saw who was waiting for the women in the garden. It was Ishwar Raktambar, his bodyguard.

  So, now the bride-in-waiting knew what her enemy looked like. A tall firinghi, a dark-haired man with one hand. With her expression she picked him, popped him in her mouth, and swallowed him like an overripe plum. He was left feeling wretched and wanting to beg her forgiveness. Such a very lovely lady, with eyes to drown in. Ishwar Raktambar was a lucky man to have won the heart of such a beautiful woman. Or had he? Perhaps, as was the custom, his father had chosen her for him
?

  ‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’

  The shout came from a mahout guiding his painted elephant along the track which ran through the cluster of buildings.

  Crossman stepped aside and the mahout looked down at him with annoyance written all over his face. This was the kind of thing that had Crossman wondering. After all, there was plenty of room either side of him. Why had the driver urged his elephant over the very spot where the lieutenant was standing? The lieutenant had the feeling that he could be anywhere in India and that mahout would have found him to be in the way.

  12

  There were strong contradictions. The countryside was a wasteland of flat endless dusty plains scattered with sullen-looking bushes and burnt leafless trees. Oppressively dull. The scene pressed down on Crossman’s spirit, threatening to mangle it. A still air of lethargy pervaded over all. This torpor, reinforced by the listless appearance of the cattle, the slow movement of figures on the landscape, weighed upon him. Yet, now and again, here and there, was vibrant colour, vivid life. It was in the swift flight of birds, in the flocks of multi-hued graceful women in saris who drifted through the heat haze, in the darting gazelle, the water-blue skies. It was these occasional hazy clouds of colour and streaking creatures which saved him from drowning in a lake of melancholia.

  ‘Do you see someone back there?’ asked Crossman, still plagued by the idea that there was someone following in their wake. ‘Look, King, back along the trail, by those wampi shrubs. See? See? There, he’s slipped in behind them. Raktambar, be so good as to ride back there and challenge the man. He’s been pestering us for quite a while now.’

  The Rajput did indeed do as the officer requested, riding over the dull plain to the wampi patch and investigating, but he reported back saying there was no one there.

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m seeing things?’ asked Crossman.