‘I’m not accusing you of eavesdropping. Since you did hear, what do you think? You know what I’m talking about. I need to make a decision very quickly. It affects you as much as it does me.’
‘He was then just a boy. Things done then is all part of the learnin’. Youth is impulsive. It jumps where it should wait a second. Youth don’t take time to calculate, it works by intuition. Once it’s jumped the wrong way a coupla times, it starts to settle some. Our boy is at the settling stage to my way of thinking. He’s done jumping.’
‘Yes but we can’t let him practise on us, now can we?’
‘I think he’s up and done his practising. I think he knows what’s what now. Didn’t he do good at that last skirmish? He’ll be fine. He’s a square kind of a fellah, ain’t he? Square body, square feet, square fists, square head, square mind. I think he’s all squared away now. All the points is worn down and he’ll do, I reckon.’ Gwilliams spat at a big black beetle that was crawling under the tent flap and successfully drowned it. ‘That’s my opinion, sir, take it or leave it. I’m off to my bed.’
Jack was surprised. He had expected Gwilliams to come down hard on King. Instead, he had given an honest considered opinion. Jack’s admiration for Gwilliams increased from that moment. He knew the American did not like the sergeant, yet he had not used the opportunity to get rid of him. Nine other men would have gone with their feelings, not their minds.
Crossman gave it another half an hour, which he wiled away watching the Punjab soldiers huddled around their fires. To a man they squatted on their haunches and the lieutenant finally went to bed wondering why such a position was so difficult for Europeans. Was it just because they were unused to putting their body in that shape? It looked so comfortable. It looked as if the human form was meant for such a position. Yet he had tried it himself and found his calves aching within a few minutes.
A morning filled with drums and bugles came too soon and sure enough Jack’s head was troubling him. He had been dreaming, for shame not of Mrs Jane Mulinder Crossman, but of the gyrocompass, which probably had something to do with his head feeling as if it were full of liquid in which his brain spun this way and that, searching for the True North of knowledge. He took his morning coffee from the chai man, fingers trembling, with a feeling of gratitude that bordered on benediction. Through the open tent flap he could see the morning parades in progress.
Once he was up, washed and dressed he felt a little better. Bugles were still blowing, and when they were not the gaps were filled by cockerels and the squeal of hungry pigs or the snort of cows. Somehow all these religions with their different eating rituals managed to live side by side without too much trouble. Jack went first to see the horses and found Raktambar grooming them. The beasts had already been fed and watered and looked very happy to be pampered.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ said Jack. ‘One of the guides’ duties is to groom the mounts.’
‘I like to,’ came the simple reply.
Crossman left the Rajput to it and went on to the camels, where he found Ibhanan with a lame dromedary. She had picked up a thorn and the wound had festered, leaving her in pain. The thorn itself had been removed, though she was still upset. She moaned on seeing Jack, as if she recognized someone who could something about her problem. He stroked the matted hair on her head and asked Ibhanan if they could get another beast and let this one rest.
‘She can’t draw a cart like this. Where’s the sergeant, by the way?’
‘Out far-looking,’ replied the Hindu, which meant the sergeant was playing with his theodolite or sextant somewhere.
‘All right. Can you get another camel from the village?’
‘I will try, sahib, though they be very poor creatures in this part of the world.’
All the men from Bombay were disparaging of the Punjab flora and fauna. In fact they didn’t think much of anything up here. Which was counteracted of course by the general local feeling that anyone from outside the land of the five rivers was an inferior being.
‘How many rupees will you need?’
Ibhanan told him the amount and was given it.
‘Take Sajan with you. Teach the boy how to haggle.’
‘Yes, sahib, it is a very necessary thing here in India.’
‘Here or anywhere,’ said Crossman, remembering how he had to haggle with his laundry woman in London.
A fakir and a snake charmer, who had entered the camp that morning, now tried to catch Crossman’s eye. But he was becoming adept at looking into the middle distance as if studying the horizon. The pair chattered at him as he passed them, but he knew he had to ignore them. You couldn’t help the whole of India and there were a lot of needy souls here. Many millions in the Punjab alone and that was but a small part. Sometimes he found himself buying things he did not want, or paying for services or entertainments he did not need, but today he was steel.
‘Sergeant?’ he shouted, seeing King moving between some far tents. ‘We need you. We’re soon to be on the move.’
King, glimmering instrument in hand, walked towards him. At that moment the captain Crossman had met the previous day passed by. The captain said, within King’s hearing, ‘I’d get rid of that one, if I were you, Lieutenant. I hear he scuttles at the sound of a gun.’
Until that moment Jack had not made up his mind about his sergeant. Until now there had still been nagging pictures, imagined confrontations with tribesmen in the Afghan mountains, ending with Sergeant King deserting his post, riding away on the only available horse, yelling hysterically that he was going for reinforcements. But the captain’s words had blasted all those images out of his head. Infuriated, he said in a very even voice, ‘I’ll thank you to leave the men under my command to me, Captain.’
The captain whirled on his heels, gave Crossman a very nasty look, and muttered something about ‘regret’ which Jack did not quite catch. He gave the captain the benefit of the doubt, preferring to believe that the other officer had expressed regret at interfering in his business, rather than prophesying that Jack would later regret his words. There must have been something in Crossman’s expression which made the other man hesitate to repeat his statement, for he turned again and walked on. The captain’s weak right shoulder slumped as if this incident, on top of having to bear burden of life in India, was just too much for one man to carry.
King said in a quiet voice, ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I suggest we get about our duty,’ answered Crossman, sternly, without looking at his sergeant. ‘Others have been up and about for hours, preparing for the march while you’ve been playing with that thing.’
King stiffened a little, but then seemed to realize his officer was trying to disguise an acute embarrassment.
‘I have been up and about too, sir,’ he finally said, mildly. ‘My kit is packed and ready to go, as is that of my men. The tents are all in. I’ve just ordered one of the chain-men to strike your tent.’
‘Very good, Sergeant,’ replied Jack, briskly. ‘I expect another camel to be here soon, then we’ll be on our way.’
As they rode out of camp, an hour later, the mussock men were back wandering the banks of the river, carrying their inflated buffalo hides on their backs, only their legs visible beneath. They looked very, very strange, resembling giant plucked birds strolling around. Blind, mouthless, with bare stubby wings and cropped claws, they seemed to drift along the bank of the river like shapes from a horrible dream painted by Hieronymus Bosch. Crossman could not help but let a shudder go through him, though he knew there were but men beneath, anxiously hoping for river passengers and cargo: men with their work on their backs, looking to make a few annas.
17
Plunging into forests of ebony and teak, some of the trees nearly a hundred feet high, Ibhanan told them this region was infested with tigers and large crushing snakes. Understandably, this made everyone nervous, and the hardwood forest, sometimes impenetrable, had to be negotiated one way or another, mostly by making det
ours where necessary. Eyes flicked from overhead boughs in search of slithering giants, to umbriferous bushes which might harbour burning-bright beasts bearing claws and fangs. When they came out the other side, neither Crossman nor anyone else had seen a tiger or a boa constrictor. Ibhanan believed this to be a miracle, saying many of the compass-wallahs whom he had served had been torn to pieces by tigers.
Crossman confided in Gwilliams. ‘I don’t believe there are wild tigers in India,’ he said. ‘I think it’s a myth perpetuated by those who think they ought to have seen one, therefore they make up a story.’
‘You could be right,’ muttered the corporal, nevertheless looking around at shadows dancing under the palms. ‘Fisherman’s tales to impress.’
The pair of them convinced each other that, like men’s stories of sexual prowess, tales of tigers were nine-tenths fiction.
They were not four days out from Stuton’s camp when Jack fell foul of Punjab fever. He felt ill during the afternoon and took to his bed before evening swept in. His stepmother had never been a sympathetic nurse with her children, lovely though she was in many other ways, and had always advocated that fresh air and a strong constitution would defeat most ailments, applying her philosophy to herself as well as to her husband and sons. It was her idea that illness was an unwanted invader and could be driven out with a stout stick. Thus when Jack was ever laid on his back he felt guilty for being so weak in allowing the invader to get the better of him.
He tried ignoring the fever by occupying his mind. Unwisely, he chose to read, by the jaundiced lamplight, a small volume given to him by Rupert Jarrard: twice-told tales written by the American author Nathaniel Hawthorne. The first story he read was the ghastly tale of a young lady who grew poisonous plants and whose very breath imbibed that poison, not affecting her, but eventually killing her youthful lover with their toxic fumes when they kissed. It was not a good subject for an invalid and the tiny print of the pocket edition was soon swimming before his eyes, making him feel dizzy. Once he had vomited over his sheet, had it changed, then immediately vomited again, he knew it was time to surrender. His mother would have disapproved, but he could not fight it any longer, and lay back on his bed with a spinning brain to sweat out the worst of it. Very soon his fevered mind was racked by images of the poisoned garden and its mistress.
The headache was excruciating and the feeling of nausea horrible, but in the morning he asked to be laid in the back of the camel cart, so that they could continue the journey.
‘No, sir – you’re much too sick to be moved,’ pronounced King, adding, which he subsequently realized was a great mistake on his part, ‘and there are a series of shallow valleys here, shrouded with vegetation, which have not yet been properly mapped. It’ll give me the opportunity to prove myself at surveying an unknown and thickly jungled area. You must rest, sir. Leave things to Gwilliams and me. We’ll manage well enough.’
Crossman went up on his elbows, his yellow eyes wild-looking and rolling in his head. ‘Sergeant! Sergeant, I order you . . .’
The lieutenant’s breath was foul and King winced, backing away from the exhalations.
‘Sir, you’re in no condition to argue. Gwilliams is coming to give you a wash and try to make you as comfortable as possible. We’re all very concerned for your welfare. Ibhanan is making up a herbal potion which he says will help with the fever. We must trust to his judgement, he having been born in this country. No – don’t try to get up. Sir! Sir! I mean it. I’m sorry, but this requires firmness on my part. Please remain in your bed, Lieutenant, or I’ll have to call Raktambar and have you restrained!’
‘You—Damn you, Sergeant . . .’
‘Your mind isn’t your own at present. You’re in the grip of fevered delusions. I’ve assumed command of the expedition, which after all has mapping as its main aim. You know I did tell you this when we met in London, sir, and I still believe it to be true. It was in my orders. You say you’ve been told something else. Well, be that as it may, now that I am in charge I must carry out the orders given to me.’
Gwilliams entered the tent with Sajan carrying a bowl of cool water and a compress, just as the lieutenant’s fingers scuttled crab-like under his pillow, presumably searching for his revolver. When he couldn’t find it he reached up with his other hand, the missing one, for his sword which hung from the central pole. Naturally there were no fingers to grip the hilt, though possibly in his fevered state of mind he imagined them back. Frustrated by the uselessness of the appendage, Crossman wailed.
‘I shall kill you, damn you.’
King unhooked the belt, scabbard and sword to keep them away from the distraught and demented lieutenant.
‘Corporal Gwilliams, please note that the officer is completely out of his mind,’ said King, ‘due to the maddening affect of the illness. I’ve taken the liberty of removing any weapons from his tent, should the said officer – in his delusional state – accidentally injure himself or someone else. We must keep him under constant watch lest he cause any harm.’
Gwilliams looked at King hard. It was always difficult to know what the corporal was thinking, due to the fact that his face was almost completely enveloped by a magnificent mane and beard, both worthy of an ancient Assyrian King. Crinkled hair and full set were all the colour of burnished bronze and spread like the sun’s rays away from the little patch of flesh in the centre of its mass. Gwilliams had an awesome countenance.
‘You figure he can’t be moved?’
‘I’m certain of it, Corporal,’ said King, trying to subdue the lower rank with an officious air. ‘He’s much too sick. We could damage his brain with too much jigging about on the cart.’
Here Sajan came to King’s rescue. ‘Sahib,’ cried the boy, tugging on Gwilliam’s beard, ‘we must seek to give him rest.’
‘The boy is right,’ continued King. ‘Rest is important, don’t you agree, Corporal? Now, I’ll inform the rest of the camp that we’ll remain here until the fever breaks properly.’
‘No,’ croaked Crossman, but then he fell back on his pillow – a folded coat. His mouth, encrusted with dried white saliva, was a testament to how ill he was.
A few moments later the convulsions began. They held Crossman down, Gwilliams ramming a ball of rags in his mouth to stop him from biting through his tongue. His eyes were frightening to behold and, once the convulsions ceased, King was glad to leave the tent. The lieutenant was now yelling hoarsely, but not at the sergeant. His shouts were apocalyptic prophetic nonsense, right out of the Revelations of St John. Had the minister, John Stillwell, been there, he would have said the lieutenant had been struck by the hand of the Lord and was speaking in tongues.
Sergeant Farrier King was in bliss. He tried to feel guilty about his happy state of being, but couldn’t succeed. Of course he was worried about Lieutenant Crossman’s illness and hoped his officer would recover, but since he, King, couldn’t do very much about it then the time would be usefully employed. He made his way to a nearby hill and once on top climbed a tree like a young boy. Once at the crown he viewed the countryside. It was ripe for mapping. To his knowledge only one map had been published of this area, and that was by Baldwin and Cradock of Paternoster Row, April 1834. It had been published under the superintendence of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, a worthy body, but it had been surveyed in a time of conflicts and upheaval, by amateur mapmakers.
This particular map, which the sergeant had in his possession right now, had been surveyed and drawn by two gentlemen turned adventurers. They were a restless scholar and vicar, sometime water diviner, named Jones whose parish in Haslemere Surrey had finally proved too dusty for his lively mind, and a River-Master Baxter, the pilot of a russet-sailed Thames barge who yearned to be on the big oceans of the world and had crewed on a ship which was wrecked on the shores of northern India in ’29. Their work was adequate but not entirely professional, and King was glad of that.
Raktambar sauntered over to him when he arrived bac
k at the camp. King suddenly realized he was now the centre of the world for all these people. It was a new experience for him. As a sergeant, of course he had had men under him, but there was always someone else around to take the final responsibility. Now he was the ultimate authority in this little band. It might have gone to his head if he had not other fish to fry.
‘Yes, Ishwar,’ he said, as the Rajput approached him. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You will call me Raktambar. My first name is for my family and friends.’
Nothing could spoil the sergeant’s mood today.
‘Forgive me. Well, what is it?’
‘Is he really sick? The lieutenant?’
‘Yes he is,’ King replied, gravely. ‘Very sick I’m afraid.’
‘Will he die?’ There was a note of hope in the Rajput’s tone which the sergeant could not miss.
King was suitably shocked. ‘I don’t think so. If we can break the fever he’ll find his way back to health. I’m surprised at you, Raktambar. I thought you Hindus had a great respect for life?’
‘Some life, it is true.’
‘All life, I thought.’
Raktambar shrugged and then said, ‘I think he will die. He has the yellow look. You firinghi die like flies in our land. You have pale weak bodies that do not like the heat and the smells. You get sick very easily and you die very easily. I think the lieutenant will die and I will go back to the maharajah and take myself a wife.’
‘Flies don’t die that easily,’ muttered King. ‘You have heard Englishmen use that saying, but it’s not true. Flies take a lot of killing, that’s why there’re so many of them. That’s why the bloody things are always around to bother us so much.’
Raktambar blinked. King realized that the Indian was confused by his ramblings. The Rajput had been expecting an argument about the lieutenant’s health, not about the durability of flies. King knew what the man was thinking – that there was no fathoming these firinghi, that they had minds which flitted back and forth like butterflies. Well, thought King, it makes a change. The boot is on the other foot for once. He regarded the tall man before him and saw a disgruntled palace guard, taken away from his own and given to another he neither knew or cared anything about. Raktambar’s spirit was in a sorry state and he was homesick. On top of that he had to tramp halfway across India with a group of mad British soldiers, suffering all the indignities and inconveniences, all the discomforts of life in the field.
Brothers of the Blade Page 15
