Crossman actually did not drag himself from his bed until another day later and then felt very shaky on his legs. He staggered out of the tent and went on a tour of inspection around the camp. He found it in good order and grudgingly commended his sergeant and corporal.
‘We must be on our way tomorrow morning,’ he told them. ‘We need to reach Ferozepur.’
The lieutenant had survived so far on Gwilliams’ soup. He did not trust the local cooking while he was still feeling so fragile. The day of their departure he ate his first solid meal and felt better for it, even though he had to drink a lot of water with the food. He could at least sit on his horse without falling off and allow the beast to saunter along the trail at its own leisurely gait. Around him the natives chattered incessantly, which drove him half-mad, but to his credit he did not bellow at them. By midday he was feeling physically weary but his mental state had improved somewhat. Spotting an eagle similar to those which flew over his Scottish home, he took this for a good omen, and felt better cheered by it.
During the stop he swallowed his pride and asked to see the map that had been drawn by Sergeant King.
There was no actual map, but there were several pages of figures and writing, which meant nothing to Jack.
‘Well, show me on your rough map the area you have covered.’
King, happy to be of service in his real work, beaming all over his broad square face, showed the lieutenant.
Jack was at first astounded, then not best pleased.
‘What? That tiny strip of land?’
The beam vanished from King’s face. ‘It’s a whole valley.’
‘A very small valley. A minuscule valley.’
‘Sir, how much do you expect for just over a week’s work? It takes years and years to map a large area. Decades. We could only do a very little in the days that were available to us.’
‘I went through that hell of a sickness for this?
‘Sir, forgive me but I was not responsible for your illness. I didn’t give you Punbjab fever. You caught it. I merely used the time available during the period of your sickness.’ King was very stiff and starchy now. ‘And if I may say so, the time was well used.’
‘You may not say so,’ fumed the lieutenant. ‘I get to do that because I’m the commanding officer. It seems I have to keep reminding you of that fact. I’m not sure your time was well used. We could have been halfway to our destination by now.’
Both men parted on the worst of terms.
Two days later the party was attacked. They were crossing a stream which tumbled out of a ravine high above them when something smacked into a rock by one of the camels. Then came the sound of a shot and Gwilliams noticed a puff of smoke in a cleft between two rocks. The corporal always carried a loaded rifle, in case of tiger, leopard, or emergencies such as this one. He took aim from his saddle and fired back at the attacker. Three figures then sprang from the ground around the rocks and made their way up a goat track with rapid movements. One of them was wearing the red coat of a sepoy.
‘Did you see that?’ asked Gwilliams, riding over to Crossman. ‘That was the army.’
‘Could be they stole the coat,’ said Sergeant King. ‘Or they might belong to one of them disbanded regiments.’
Crossman dismounted. ‘We’ll find out,’ he said. ‘King, Gwilliams, follow me. Raktambar, you stay and guard the camp.’
The Rajput had also dismounted and he nodded, then urged the men in the carts to jump out and take cover. The Indians were not slow to do this. It was difficult to tell who was fastest on his feet, young Sajan or the much older Ibhanan. Raktambar took up a position facing the goat track, but told one of the chain-men to keep his eyes on their rear.
In the meantime the three soldiers ran up the track.
‘Sir, you ain’t yet strong in your constitution,’ argued Gwilliams. ‘Let me and King go after ’em.’
But the lieutenant would have none of it. If there was action to be had, he wanted to be there.
‘Just don’t shoot anyone on our side, Sergeant,’ he said in between laboured breaths, ‘keep the weapon pointing to the front.’
‘I’m not that bad,’ protested the sergeant.
They raced up the track, but when they came to a bend, with a sheer drop on one side and a cliff on the other, they were met with a hail of rocks. Higher up the path their attackers were hidden behind some boulders. One or two shots came zinging down, keeping Crossman and the other two behind the corner. Now the ambushers were calling to them, taunting them, inviting the firinghi to come and get them.
‘You will all die,’ came a clear shout in English. ‘We will cut your throats and throw your testicles to wild dogs.’
‘Well now,’ muttered Gwilliams, ‘that ain’t exactly where I keep my balls but you ain’t gonna get to find out anyways.’
A figure then presented itself, just as Gwilliams was taking a bead on the boulders ahead. The man wore a white pillbox cap and red coat with naik’s stripes on the sleeve: a corporal just like Gwilliams himself. Gwilliams thought nothing of it. He shot the figure in the chest. The Indian let out a yell and fell backwards, causing a great commotion amongst his fellows.
‘Nice work, Corporal,’ murmured Crossman.
Rocks were again flung blind over the boulders, but clattered uselessly down the hillside. It seemed to Crossman that there were quite a number of men up there, though they appeared to rather lightly armed. It seemed there were three or four firearms, though doubtless their attackers would have knives and perhaps swords too. Crossman and Gwilliams could hold the path indefinitely, but that would keep them there too.
‘King,’ he said, ‘go back down to the camp and bring two men with casks of powder, if you please. Leave your Enfield with me. I take it the weapon is loaded? You’ll find my Enfield in the second cart.’
‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’
The sergeant withdrew after propping his weapon on the rock face. At least, thought Crossman, the man can obey orders without question under fire, which was good.
Gwilliams took another shot at a fleeting movement amongst the boulders. Crossman had not yet fired his revolver since the distance involved was too long for his weapon. Now he fired twice, not in order to hit any target, but to let them know he and his men had plenty of firearms. Then he took up the rifle and rested the stock on his left forearm, the fingers of his good right hand employed with the hammer and trigger. The grip was of course not firm and it would take an age to reload, but he could soon revert to his revolver if the men up above charged them.
‘We will kill you,’ came the same voice again. ‘We will cut out your eyes and throw them to the birds.’
‘Original beggar, ain’t he?’ said Gwilliams.
Jack called out, ‘This is Lieutenant Crossman of the 88th Foot. Who is that up there? Why are you firing on us?’
There was another commotion for a time, then the voice came back, ‘Here is Jemandar Prithviraj Suraj. We have been disbanded, sir. I am no longer of the BNI, for my livelihood has been taken from me. I was a commissioned officer, like you, and now I am nothing. My wife and children will starve. It has all been taken away. You are now my enemy.’
There was a plaintive tone to the shout, underlined with a defiant note, which Crossman might have found himself sympathizing with, if he had not guessed at the reasons behind the disbanding.
‘You mutinied!’ he called back.
‘No, sir – we did not mutiny. Not at all. Those bad men in Meerut, they were the mutineers. Yet we have been reduced, sir, to men of no consequence. It is unfair. My name means nothing now.’
‘There must have been a good reason for disbanding your regiment. No doubt the risk of mutiny was there. But that is by the by, Jemandar Suraj, you have fired on us and I’m sure you do not intend to let us go without a fight.’
‘Go. Go. You have killed one of us, now go.’
‘You won’t follow us and try to kill us?’
‘No, sir. We have
had enough of the fighting . . .’
At that moment a small stone, dislodged from the cliff, struck Crossman lightly on the shoulder. He glanced up to his left and saw three or four armed figures slipping along the ridge above his him. It appeared they had climbed over the high point, which looked formidable even for goats, while Crossman and Gwilliams had been distracted by the Indian jemandar. The sepoys were now dropping down behind the two soldiers. Crossman raised his left arm, levelling the rifle, but when he fired the Enfield kicked violently off its forearm rest. The shot missed its target. Gwilliams was more accurate with his shot, spinning one of the figures round like a ballerina. When the victim had completed his pirouette he fell sideways from his perch and dropped down into the ravine without a sound escaping from his lips. His comrades slipped down the other side of the hill.
Shots now came from above again and those left up the hill attempted a charge. Crossman reached for his revolver and shot one man dead, the following man tripping over his body. Gwilliams had now reloaded and hit a second man in the head. Two more charged on, yelling at the tops of their voices, wielding blades. Crossman’s revolver refused to fire, even when he skipped chambers. He dropped his firearm and drew his sword, slashing at the first man who tried to force his way round the corner. He caught an upper arm, the attacker lost his balance and he too dropped over the edge into the deep ravine, to smash on the rocks below. Gwilliams felled the next man with the butt of his Enfield, crunching bone.
No more followed these foolhardy few into the narrow bottleneck. A scrambling sound above them told the two soldiers that the remaining Indians were making good their escape over the pass. Crossman sheathed his blade and picked up his revolver.
The sound of shots came from the camp below.
‘Let’s get back,’ said Crossman. ‘They may have been surprised by those two who went over the top.’
The pair raced back down the path, but when they reached the camp there was a dead man lying near one of the camel carts, and a live one being efficiently trussed by Raktambar with some raffia.
‘I shot this one,’ said King, standing over a prone body with a cavernous hole in its back. ‘Got him in the belly with your Enfield, sir. He came straight at me. Couldn’t miss. Three feet away when I fired. Went through him as if he were butter. Nasty hole, that, though. Amazing. A cannon ball couldn’t make a worse exit hole.’
‘Sergeant,’ said Crossman, who could not help but be aware of King’s agitation, ‘are you all right?’
King did not lift his head to reply, seeming to be mesmerized by that ball wound in his victim’s back.
‘All right? I should say not, I think.’
The sergeant then went behind one of the camels and vomited quietly on to the ground.
Crossman and Raktambar interrogated their prisoner. He refused to say which regiment he was from, but he was full of venom for the British and their treatment of him. He kept addressing his remarks to Raktambar, ignoring the lieutenant. Finally, Crossman called for Gwilliams to take the captive and put him in one of the carts. Once this was done, Crossman and Raktambar spoke together.
‘He says he did nothing wrong and his livelihood was taken away from him by the Company army – do you believe him, Raktambar?’
The Rajput nodded. ‘He is telling the truth, sahib, but not all the truth.’
’What do you mean by that?’
‘He would have mutinied, later.’
‘How do you know this?’
Raktambar’s dark eyes bore into Crossman’s. ‘Because, sahib, all India is ready to revolt against the British rule. It is a pot just reaching the boil. Everything is simmering, ready to bubble. I know this because I am Indian. This man,’ he flicked his hand at the doorway, ‘is a Rajput like me. He is of the same caste as me. We are brothers of the same blood.’
‘You know him?’
Raktambar’s patience was thin. ‘No, I do not know him. He is a sepoy, not a palace guard. His name means nothing to me. He is one of millions. But I know his feelings.’
Crossman stared at his protector. ‘You have the same feelings?’
‘Of course. I am a Rajput. I am an Indian. We share the same feelings, the Rajputs, the men of Oudh. We all have an anger which will not go away. You try to change us. We will not be changed.’
‘You mean we are interfering with your religions?’
‘That and many other things.’
‘If you feel the same as that man we have in the cart,’ said Crossman, sadly, ‘I can no longer trust you.’
The Rajput’s face gave nothing away. ‘You must think as you will, sahib.’
Crossman sighed. What was he to do? Send this man back to his master in Jaipur? That seemed the most sensible course of action. Otherwise they would all have to sleep with one eye open. And Raktambar might decide to let their prisoner loose, while no one was looking. Both Raktambar and Crossman knew that the man would be hanged, once they got to Ferozepur, providing the British were still in command there. And that was another thing. Just how stable was the situation? Some regiments of doubtful loyalty had been disbanded – Colonel Stuton had told him that – but surely not the whole of the Bengal army? Getting rid of four regiments was not going to do it, if the whole show was festering. That would just add fuel to the fire and Raktambar’s pot would indeed boil over. The jemandar who seemed to be the leader of their attackers had mentioned Meerut. Those bad men in Meerut. He had spoken of them as mutineers. So perhaps the disbanding of Bengal regiments in the Punjab was a reaction to a mutiny elsewhere?
None of these thoughts brought him any closer to knowing what he was to do about Ishwar Raktambar. Crossman called for Sergeant King and Corporal Gwilliams. They came to him and the three white men stood by a rock and looked across at the Rajput, who must have known he was the subject under discussion. Crossman told his two NCOs what he knew and said, ‘I’m thinking of giving Raktambar his marching orders.’
‘What about my men?’ asked King. ‘They’re Indians too.’
‘I don’t know. They’re from Bombay, not Rajputana or Oudh. Also they’re not sepoys and are of low caste. Most of them are just coolies. Perhaps if a mob were to attack us their loyalty might be suspect, but for the moment I think we’ll have to keep them with us. Otherwise we’ll have to abandon your instruments, King, and just the three of us ride out.’
‘I agree,’ said King, quickly. ‘And the boy?’
‘Oh, he’ll stay with us, of course,’ replied Crossman. ‘I can’t think he’ll give us any trouble. Besides, he dotes on you, King.’ The lieutenant paused for a moment in thought. ‘I tell you this, men – if we can’t trust some of them, then we’re all dead men. There are millions and millions of people in this vast subcontinent, and very few of us.’
A few minutes later he called Raktambar to him.
‘You are free to go,’ he said to the tall Rajput. ‘Go home and marry your bride.’
Raktambar gripped his sword. His face, under his turban, was impassive. ‘I cannot go. It is not for you to say, but for the maharajah, who asked me to protect you.’
‘I don’t want you here. I don’t trust you any more.’
‘Did you ever trust me, sahib?’
‘No, to be truthful, not really.’
‘Then what has changed?’
Crossman couldn’t answer this for a moment, then he realized that yes, things had changed a great deal.
‘There are men out there who agree with you. How can I be sure you won’t cut the my throat and those of my men?’
Raktambar’s eyes blazed. ‘I have my honour!’
‘So did that jemandar. He gave his oath to the East India Company army. That didn’t stop him trying to kill me.’
Raktambar shook his head sorrowfully. ‘You will not let me stay? Even if I say I will be your good and faithful servant?’
‘No. I’ll write you a letter to give to the maharajah, which will exonerate you from all blame. I’ll tell him it was entirely my fau
lt that you were sent back, that your work for me was exemplary and that you were a good and faithful protector for the time you stayed with me. Raktambar,’ said Jack, in a change of tone, ‘we both know why the maharajah told you to accompany me. It was to spy on me, was it not? To watch me and gather information for a report? Surely you don’t think me stupid?’
‘You are not stupid, sahib, and I do not need your letter.’
‘Right then. Gather up your belongings and leave, if you please.’ Crossman held out his good palm. ‘I would like to shake your hand, if you will, before you go, and to thank you for your services to me.’
Raktambar ignored the hand and turned on his heel. He went to his horse and mounted immediately. Leaving all his gear behind him, he rode off, along a jungle path. Crossman watched him go with mixed feelings. Despite the questionable loyalty of his erstwhile ‘protector’ Jack was sorry to see him go. There was much to admire in Raktambar. Yes, he was a little petulant and peevish, but that was the young man in him. What bridegroom torn away from his bride so close to his wedding would not have revealed the same character deficits? Yet, there was also a steadfastness in Raktambar and a great sense of honour. And as for his loyalty, why, if Britain had been taken over by Indians there would be no question where Crossman’s loyalties lay. It certainly would not be with newcomers who governed his land.
The party moved on, towards Ferozepur.
19
The town was sombre. Clearly something had happened here. Crossman told Sergeant King to find billets for the men and hand their prisoner to the authorities. He himself then made enquiries as to the whereabouts of Colonel Hawke. Calcutta Hawke was not a hard man to find. Crossman discovered him in a dwelling not far from the barracks. Tanned and looking very much at home in his Indian bungalow, the colonel appeared to be in a grave mood when Crossman saluted.
‘Ah, Fancy Jack – you made it.’
Crossman smiled at the colonel’s familiarity.
‘Yes sir, not without incident. But I imagine it would be difficult to travel this land without something occurring. We gathered one prisoner on the way: a sepoy from a whole party of them who attacked us.’
Brothers of the Blade Page 17
