‘Only about a thousand,’ said Gwilliams. ‘Ain’t there regiments of British soldiers at Meerut? Europeans? Why ain’t they followed the mutineers an’ cut ’em down on the way to Delhi? Come to think of it, why didn’t they stop ’em leaving in the first place? They queer in the head, or what?’
Jack sighed. ‘Meerut is under the command of a General Hewitt. It seems he failed to act, despite having two British regiments and several batteries of artillery at hand. He and his colonel allowed three regiments of mutineers, infantry and cavalry, and a growing rag-tag mob of followers to get away in the night. They took Delhi by surprise, gaining control of the city. Other sepoy regiments are now joining them. They hunted down and killed any British or Eurasian families, foreigners of all kinds. The telegraph operator managed to get a message out with the bad news, before the line went dead. It seems those survivors of the slaughter are now on a rocky ridge north of Delhi attempting to defend themselves.’
A silence fell on the proceedings for a few moments as these events were visualized in each of the three minds.
‘So you can see,’ continued Crossman after a moment, ‘we need to move with all possible speed.’
‘I think we ought to volunteer to join the column and relieve Delhi,’ answered King. ‘Women and children . . .’
‘This is not a democracy, Sergeant. You’ll do as you’re told.’
There was a great deal of steel in Crossman’s voice which made King’s head jerk back. After a moment, the sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir. A reaction to the news.’
‘Fine. Now, does anyone want to know where we’re going? Ah, here’s Raktambar – and the drinks.’
The cook-bearer was leading Raktambar on to the veranda from the rear of the house. Gwilliams and the servant glared at one another for a moment before the drinks were handed out. Raktambar fetched a wicker chair from the other end of the veranda and placed himself next to Crossman. The lieutenant waited for the servant to get out of earshot, before he briefed his men.
‘As I said, our destination is Piwar. In the hills around there’s a tribe called the Kafirisi. They’re also known as the Wolves of Paktia, but don’t let that worry you. Just about every tribe in those hills is called the wolves-of-something-or-other. That doesn’t mean they’re not a fierce bunch, but they’re no different from their neighbours so we haven’t been given the hardest chore. Our task is no different from any others going on the same mission. We need to find the chief, obtain assurances from him, and return, hopefully in time to join the column from Peshawar.’
Sergeant King was sent back to his own quarters. He returned with some tubes of maps. He took one out and spread it reverently on a table so that they could study it. They had some hard riding ahead of them: some 250 miles or more. The country was rough and there was no telling who they might meet on the way. Crossman was not so much worried about mutineers, for the Punjab British officers – unlike many of their Bengal counterparts – had acted decisively in disarming their own doubtful sepoys and sowars. The Punjab force was a newer and fresher entity and sentimentality did not get in the way of stripping any regiments of uncertain loyalty of their arms. No, his main concern were other tribes or groups of hill men they might meet on the way: people who might simply resent their presence.
‘Right,’ said Crossman, rolling up the maps, ‘we’ve rivers to cross and mountains to climb, so I suggest we all get a good night’s sleep and be ready to ride at six in the morning. Raktambar, perhaps you’ll stay for a while after the sergeant and corporal have left? Thank you, men.’
King and Gwilliams left the bungalow. Raktambar remained.
Crossman said, ‘I wanted to give you one last chance to change your mind.’
There was a firm shake of the head. ‘I wish to come.’
‘What about afterwards, when we advance to Delhi.’
‘Then too.’
‘I accept your offer then.’
Raktambar left. Crossman went into his bungalow. He was feeling tired and washed-out. The servant had given him some tamarind seed case to chew, which was now going sour in his mouth. He spat it out, through the window. There was a stream of white ants on the window-sill, marching back and forth, a group of them triumphantly carrying the corpse of a cockchafer on their shoulders. Jack mused on the fact that even further down the chain of being there was not much respite from war and the acquisition of territory. That poor cockchafer had probably wandered innocently enough into a region where he felt he might find food and found savage inhabitants instead. It was best, when all was said and done, to stay in your own back yard. If you didn’t bother your neighbour he wouldn’t bother you.
‘Sahib,’ said a voice from the kitchen, ‘you like guava?’
‘Don’t think I’ve ever tasted one, but thank you, yes,’ said Jack, who loved fruit of any kind. He was given one by the bearer, who smiled when Jack bit into it. ‘Faint taste of strawberries, I fancy,’ murmured Jack, thinking of Jane and home for a few flourishing thoughts.
Outside in the compound, bullocks were drawing water which gardeners were channelling into flowerbeds of jasmine and oleanders. Inside, pockets of the heat of the day lingered as invisible clouds in random patches. Jack sat at a wobbly table on which stood an inkstand, a paperweight made of a tiger’s fang and a half-filled page of a letter. The bearer brought in the chairs from the veranda and placed them about the room: one by the oriental cabinet whose lacquer was peeling away from its wood; another by the bookcase containing ragged volumes – some text books, a very few novels; the third by a weapons stand, a huge ceramic pot in which there were some pig-sticks, two very old shotguns and an even older regimental sword. The owner of the bungalow, a captain, had died of sunstroke just two weeks previously. Jack imagined that the sword belonged to the man’s father, or even grandfather, being of a style which had gone out of use many years ago.
When Jack moved he heard something crinkle and found he was sitting on an old copy of Bell’s Life. He leafed through it, listlessly, then went on a tour of the bungalow. In the adjoining room he found the bed he was to sleep on, a wooden frame crossed with ropes for springs and a padded cotton quilt for a mattress. There was, at least, a new-looking mosquito net draped over a line which crossed the room over the bed. There was also the ubiquitous punkah frame with the matted fan suspended from it and the cord at the moment attached to a hook on the wall.
All in all, though, it was a pretty dismal place in which to spend one’s leisure time. A few friends round for cards perhaps, once in a while? Or drinks? Otherwise Jack imagined the captain would be in the mess, playing billiards on that moth-eaten table he had seen there, or out hunting some wild creature or other. Surely, Captain – what was it? Cox? That was it. Surely, captain Cox did not spend more time than he should in this place with its worm-eaten furniture and its dreary air of deadness?
It was a shabby life to be sure, even though attended by many servants. On arrival Jack had found that there was no less than thirteen of them on Captain Cox’s payroll, including a sweeper, a water-carrier, a dhobi-wallah, four punkah-wallahs, a tailor, khitmutgar – a kind of butler – and several others. Crossman had informed these disappointed people that he was only staying a very short time and would not require their services. The cook-bearer had refused to go and said he would work for nothing, since his bed was in a corner of the kitchen and he had no wish to sleep in the open. There were many who did, of course, some out of choice, but he had his patch. The rest of them disappeared into some baked-mud huts at the rear of the bungalow, presumably to await a more promising occupant, someone who would stay until death, like the last one.
Crossman went to bed after sitting up late planning the journey to Piwar. He took some time in getting to sleep, what with the heat and the mosquitoes along with night noises. Even the geckos were particularly loud in their calls to each other as they skated up and down the walls, and over the ceiling, on their peculiar-looking feet. Nevertheless he eventually drop
ped into a fitful doze which lasted until the early hours. At about five o’clock he felt a warm soft body next to his own. Unsure whether or not he was dreaming he gradually came to consciousness to find a youngish woman in bed with him, smelling of incense and perfumed oils.
‘What?’ He sat up abruptly. ‘What’s this?’
The woman turned over and looked up at him with large brown eyes ringed with kohl to emphasize their seductiveness. She said nothing, simply lying there in the flimsiest of muslin which hid none of her charms. The aroma which came from her smooth skin was maddening to Crossman, who had not been this close to a female for several months now. It played like music on his brain, captivating him. Where had this enchantress come from? Did she go with the house? Had she been sent by one of his own men? Ibhanan? Raktambar? Or perhaps – his blood ran cold for a moment – she was the cook-bearer’s wife or daughter? Dear God, would the man rush in wielding a tulwar any moment and accuse him of adultery? These people were passive most of the time, but just occasionally they went berserk. Then they killed without mercy.
‘You must leave,’ he said, hardly convincing himself let alone her. ‘You must go. You can’t stay here. Go home.’
She spoke in a husky voice. ‘Sahib Cox would not tell me to go. He would tell me this is my home. I have done nothing wrong. I have come to the same bed I have visited every night for two years. Would you have me go to another? Whose? I think I must stay. You will regret sending me out into the night. I can be a very loving woman you know.’
There was a note of panic in Crossman’s voice.
‘Ah, Cox, yes. But I’m not Captain Cox. You’ve noticed that now. Perhaps at first you thought I was? Is that why you came to my bed? You had not heard of his death? The funeral was last week.’
Her eyes grew moist. ‘I have heard of it. I was there. Sahib Cox was to marry me soon. He spoke of it many times.’ She turned her whole body towards him and her heavy warm breasts rested against the bare skin of his right arm. ‘What will happen to me now that he has gone? I come to you, sahib, because I have nowhere else to go. My family will not have me now that I have been with a firinghi. I will starve.’ She stroked his cheek with surprisingly rough fingers. It reminded him that he was used to the silken touch of Jane’s fingers. ‘You will look after me, will you not, sir? You are a kind man. It is in your look, in your eyes. I do not believe you could send me away to be beaten by my father and brothers.’
‘I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘You must find another man.’
‘You are a man. Do you not like women?’
‘Of course I like women, but my wife – I love my wife – this would hurt her if she knew of it.’
‘She need not know of it, sahib. Can you not afford a missy and a memsahib? Where is she? In England? How can she know of us? This is India. We can live together without anyone knowing, anyone at all. Even the commander did not know of Sahib Cox and me.’
‘Didn’t he? That’s extraordinary.’
Her voice grew deeper and huskier. There were bangles on her wrists and ankles, which jingled with each small movement of her body. Now he saw the jewel in her navel, a red ruby, bright as blood. Suddenly she shook her head and a cascade of jet hair fell to her shoulders, past them, down almost to her narrow waist. Her white teeth parted a little.
‘This is India where there are secrets. I am the hymn the golden oriole sings. I am the whisper of insects in the dry grasses. I am the cry of the hawk that circles the blue sky. You are my warrior, sahib, courageous and full of honour. You deserve to have my bee-honey love, sweeter than any tasted in that cold country from which you came. Here is the passion that burns. Here is the heart of heat you seek. You are the lord of all you survey. Here in India I am yours to command, my deep strong soldier. You are quick, like the burning snake, to take what is yours by right. You strike when I am ready. During the day I bring my sticks for your fire. During the night you bring your stick to my fire . . .’
Murmuring this nonsense she entwined herself around his torso, a contortionist with a suppleness nothing short of miraculous. Her legs plaited with one of his own up to her thighs. Her arms wound around his head, pulling it down, burying his face in her belly. When he tried to move away from her midriff, she lifted his face to her own. Her scent was almost overpowering now, as she arched downwards, so that her lips were almost brushing his cheek. Jack felt himself weaken. Certainly he was aroused – he could not help but be aroused. That in itself was not a moral wrong, but it was a persuasive influence. He groaned when she linked an arm around his neck and stared deep into his eyes. Her breath was cloying. The soft touch of her breasts on his chest drove him crazy.
‘Look,’ he began, with a catch in his voice. ‘I have to leave today, for an unknown destination. I might never come this way again . . .’
At that moment Sajan walked into the room, carefully carrying a cup of tea in his small hands.
‘Sahib,’ he said, his attention wholly taken up with his balancing act, ‘I bring you your wake-up chai.’
Jack was brought back to earth with a jolt.
‘Thank you, Sajan. Please put it on the small table by the bed.’
The boy looked up after he had done this deed. A frown crossed his face. ‘Who is this woman?’ he asked.
‘You mind your Ps and Qs,’ said this woman, petulantly. ‘Little boys should be seen and not heard.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do,’ said the boy with some asperity. ‘I take no orders from the likes of you.’
‘Cheeky monkey. I shall give you a clip ear, if you’re not careful.’
Jack said to the woman, ‘You’d better go. I shall leave some money with the quartermaster. You won’t starve for a while.’
‘Huh!’ she cried, haughtily. ‘Keep your money.’
She gathered up the bottom sheet and wrapped it around herself like a sari, before striding from the room with her chin in the air.
‘Sajan,’ said Crossman, ‘I think we should keep this to ourselves. You’re to tell no one, you understand?’
‘Can I come with you to Piwar?’
‘No, you may not. You will stay with Ibhanan, here. But don’t think you can blackmail me. It won’t work. I always have the upper hand, because I’m a grown man and you’re a small boy.’
Sajan made an ugly face. ‘I do not like you, sahib. You do not want me any more.’
‘It’s not a question of that.’
‘You send me away!’
‘No.’
‘Then I come with you?’
‘No.’
‘I hate you,’ cried the boy, his face contorted with anger. ‘I hate you. One day I will grow to a man and kill you.’
He then burst into tears and ran from the bungalow and Jack sighed. What was he to do with the boy? Were children always this much trouble? He would have to remind himself of the fact when he and Jane talked about a family.
Jack rose, dressed hurriedly, and then methodically went about the chores necessary before setting out on a long journey. He shaved himself this morning, preferring to do without Gwilliams, who came later and remonstrated with him for doing so. However, the corporal had other tasks himself and left the lieutenant to get on with his packing, another chore he preferred to do himself. If there was some important item missing from his luggage later, he would have only himself to blame. In an hour he was done and gathered his men about him. He said goodbye to a sullen Sajan and requested Ibhanan to look after the boy.
‘And see to the sergeant’s precious instruments, Ibhanan.’
‘I will, sahib. They are safe in my hands.’
‘The sergeant trusts you with them and so do I. I’m very impressed with what the sergeant says about you, Ibhanan – your growing skills as a mapmaker . . .’ He suddenly realized how patronizing this sounded and he added, ‘Though there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be skilled at such things,’ thus making a bad speech even worse.
A little later Jack and his men were out on the tr
ail, heading north-west in the general direction of the Khyber Pass. They intended to enter the high country through a narrow valley further south of the pass, closer to their destination. Sergeant King, Corporal Gwilliams and Ishwar Raktambar were the other riders. They each had led a pack horse which would also serve as an alternative mount. The mood was sombre. Normally a British officer going on such a mission would have a troop of cavalry with him, or a a few companies of infantry. Jack was relying on the fact that he had no army protection to impress the tribal chiefs.
However, hill men were hill men, and they might just decide to decapitate all four of them to teach the British army some kind of lesson. Who knew whether or not the head of the Kafirisi tribe had not lost a son in a battle with the British? Or perhaps had been insulted and humiliated at some time by a pompous major? Crossman could well imagine that his own father, in his time, might have called tribal chieftains by dirty names. Major Kirk had considered himself to be superior to most British, let alone foreigners. (Though such prejudice did not prevent him from accepting the title of Knight Commander of the Portuguese Order of the Tower and Sword.) Had he been let loose in Asia, Jack could well imagine his father starting several wars with his arrogance.
Jack hoped his own arrogance, for he recognized that he had a little of his father within him, was under control. He was the son of an aristocrat and an officer in what he believed was the greatest army in the world, so the potential was there. He tried always to remember Burn’s line, A man’s a man, for a’ that. Whether the great poet had meant what Jack took it to mean was neither here nor there. The line did its job when Jack was feeling particularly pleased with himself.
Brothers of the Blade Page 19
