Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘I got called a griffin in Ferozepur,’ King told Gwilliams, as they trailed on at the rear. ‘What that means, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Only I asked the man who called me it – very politely – just what he meant by it. It only means fresh meat.’

  ‘Newcomer?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh. I thought it might be some sort of insult. Well, I suppose it is in a way, but you can’t really insult a man with the truth. We are fresh to India.’ King moved forward in the saddle, having uncomfortable sores on his buttocks from previous riding. He looked about him at what he considered to be a miserable scene. ‘God, I wish I was home now. Down there,’ he nodded backwards, ‘in the jungle it was different. It was lush and green, and noisy, and, well, exciting. This place is like the land of the dead. Everywhere old bones of dead animals – maybe humans for all I know. Nothing but dust and carcasses, mouldy fur and feathers.’ He swung round in his saddle to face Gwilliams. ‘What do you miss most about England?’

  ‘Not a lot. It ain’t my home. It’s a foreign country.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. Well then, what do you miss about your own country? Canada, isn’t it? Or the United States?’

  ‘Let’s just call it North America, ’cause I bin everywhere on it ’cept some small towns what ain’t worth the visit. Guess there’s a few more o’ them sprung up since I bin away. What do I miss? Girls, I guess. Good ole girls with lots o’ flounces and plenty o’ warpaint. God they used to smell so good. Enough cheap perfume to drown a rat. Legs up to their necks. Great big boobies spillin’ out of their dresses, white an’ creamy. Black stockings with red garters. Nuff to make a man sweat in Eskimo-land. You take ’em to a room and what’s the first thing they do? Take out a powdy-puff and create a whole blizzard of pink scented snow on the sheets, nuff to drive you wild. I once had a girl, she weren’t more’n forty-five, which is young when it comes to them ladies in the new western towns, I tell you. She was some woman, that’s a fact. Almost got married that one time. Narrow squeak.’

  ‘Tavern girls, you mean? Good lord, Gwilliams, you can’t marry a tavern girl.’

  ‘Why in hell not? I like taverns myself. Homely places where a man can drink and talk to his heart’s content. Better’n being stuck in an empty room with a bottle. How about you, Sarge? What d’you miss?’

  King smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Apple pie and custard. My dog, Hammer, a big black mongrel who sits around my dad’s forge when I’m not there, pining for me. Oh, stovepipe hats! They’re greatly in fashion at the moment. Everyone’s wearing them. I bought one before I left, but haven’t had time to put it on and go out in public.’

  ‘And by the time you get back home again, they’ll be out of fashion. I guess you like them ’cause they make you look taller. You should wear your shako, that’ll correct the deficit just as good.’

  The sergeant frowned and wheeled his horse to confront his companion.

  ‘That’s the second time today. I am not short.’

  ‘Just a wee bit, next to the lieutenant an’ me, that is – oh, and Raktambar. I tell you one thing, you ain’t shorter than Sajan.’ Gwilliams grinned.

  King pulled his mount back into line feeling aggrieved.

  ‘I’m as strong as any man here. Two rupees says I can lift a heavier load than you or the lieutenant.’

  Two rupees was equivalent to four shillings in English money. Gwilliams did not consider this a worthy wager for a man of his stature and suggested they should raise it to ten rupees. ‘That’d be less mean.’

  ‘Ten rupees?’ cried King. ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘No, on your strength, Sergeant. Damn man, it’s only a third of your monthly pay. You can afford that. Nothin’ to spend it on our here.’

  ‘I have far better things to do with my money, Corporal. I withdraw the wager and consider the matter closed.’

  He trotted his mount and packhorse on, to show he meant it.

  Raktambar had heard this conversation and was impressed by the amount of money Gwilliams was prepared to bet. He waited for a short while before asking Crossman, ‘I would be able to join the British army, yes?’

  ‘Not the British army, as such, but certainly the East India Company’s army, as you well know. Three out of four men in the Bengal army are Hindus like yourself. Rajputs and Brahmins. Or, if you liked, you could join the Madras or Bombay army. Much the same thing, though. No difference. Better to be with friends, I would have thought. Rajputs and men of Oudh.’

  ‘How much money would I receive?’

  ‘I understand a sepoy gets seven rupees a month.’

  Raktambar drew a sharp intake of breath, before saying, ‘The sergeant gets much more. I heard the corporal say so.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s Queen’s Regiment. You would be with John Company.’ Crossman paused before adding, ‘Of course, a European soldier in the Company army also gets more, but then he is British.’

  ‘And this is the fairness of which you people speak so much? A man’s life is worth the same, wherever he comes from.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, but you won’t get the Company to agree. You see the Company’s managed – that’s to say, controlled – by a dozen old men called “directors” who sit around a table in far-off London. I doubt they’ve even seen an Indian sepoy, let alone spoken with one. As I understand it, there’s over three hundred thousand sepoys and sowars in John Company’s army. If they raised the pay to that of a British soldier it would cost the Company another – oh, maths, maths – four to five million rupees a month. I doubt they would ever agree to do that.’

  ‘But,’ said the astute Raktambar, ‘they must make many riches from revenues in India.’

  ‘I’m not much interested in finance. I wouldn’t know. I suppose you’re right, but there it is. It’s always appeared to me that the greediest of people are men who sit around small tables in London, talking profit and figures that seem to come out of fairy tales. Nothing seems to satisfy them. I doubt they’d give a sepoy one rupee more without a huge battle around that small table. Certainly the British soldier doesn’t consider himself well paid. I myself, as an officer, must use my own money to keep up appearances, for my army pay doesn’t cover what I need.’

  Raktambar’s eyes swam around in his head for a moment.

  ‘You pay to be here, in these forsaken hills?’

  ‘Well, not here, exactly. I go where I’m sent.’

  ‘I think I will not join the Bengal army.’

  ‘Wise. Very wise. Remain in the royal household, once you’ve got shot of me, of course. The maharajah’s palace is probably a haven of delights compared with being out here, in the field, or back in one of the camps. You get to live in the palace, do you not? With marble floors and walls, curtains and what not? In the Bengal army you’d get a barrack room full of noisy coughing sepoys, with a floor of rammed earth covered by watered cow dung to keep away the insects. I know, I’ve been in similar barrack huts, though not in India. They’re ghastly places. They stink of the worst of human smells. They’re noisy beyond belief. There’s drinking and fights – all the worst kind of characters you can imagine.’

  ‘Oh, sir, sir,’ interrupted King, coming up alongside his commanding officer, ‘not all bad, surely? There’s also backgammon, draughts and sometimes even a coffee-room in which one can relax. Why, I’ve known barracks with libraries attached.’

  Crossman smiled and nodded. ‘There you have it, Raktambar, the worst and best of barrack-room life.’

  The Rajput nodded, clearly thinking it all over. Then he was uncommonly candid. ‘Palace life is not all fragrance and flower petals,’ he said, hinting at things more dark.

  ‘No?’ said King. ‘Do tell. I love gossip.’

  ‘In the palace,’ Raktambar said, ‘we have hasad-wa-fasad.’

  Crossman translated. ‘Jealousy and intrigue.’

  Raktambar continued with, ‘The maharajah is not well-loved by all. Others wish for his power. Brothers
will plot against him. Sons will war against him. He must always have a food-taster or be poisoned. He must sleep in a room where the boards sing like larks when trodden upon by approaching assassins. The favourite of today is tomorrow’s condemned man. I will serve my lord, but if his son kills him, I shall die for that faithful service, for the son is jealous of all that was the father. A new palace will be built to show a new beginning. Fresh palace guards will be recruited and the old put to the sword in case they foment revolt. No one is safe. Everyone looks under his pillow for the planted scorpion. Everyone unfolds his clothes carefully in case a deadly snake has been put there. There is a book, the Arthashastra which tells maharajahs how to hold on to their kingdoms, how to defeat their enemies, how to perform magnificence. This book has a thousand deaths for men like me, who are close to the rajah.’

  ‘Sounds like Machiavelli’s The Prince,’ muttered the well-read Gwilliams, trailing on behind. ‘Every culture’s got one.’

  ‘Nowhere is safe,’ said King. ‘Life is full of danger.’

  ‘Not as much as we seem to seek,’ Crossman answered. ‘If you’d stayed with your father and had settled for a blacksmith’s life you’d be safe enough.’

  ‘Maybe, but who’s to say that blacksmiths will always be a wanted trade. Perhaps in the future they won’t need farriers any more? When I was at school our master told us that in some countries they make wooden shoes, like Lancashire clogs, to fit horses’ feet. The people carve them out of oak or some other hard wood and just put ’em on the horses’ feet like shoes.’

  ‘I can’t ever see us not needing farriers,’ said Crossman.

  ‘You don’t know,’ replied King. ‘It could be that one day we’ll all ride about in steam trains and not need horses any more. What about that then? A world of steam trains! It’s not impossible.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ scoffed the lieutenant. ‘Totally impossible. Perhaps more than most men I prefer steam trains to horses, but I can’t see machines ever forcing horses out of our lives. You only have to look at history. The horse, like the dog, has been with men from the beginning. That’s not a union which could easily be put asunder, as they say. Mankind began life with the horse and when the end of the world comes, the horse will still be with him, you mark my words. Not that we’ll be there to see it, but just the same.’

  Gwilliams said, ‘I agree with the lieutenant. Horses is permanent. I don’t know where you get them warped ideas from, Sergeant, but you sure oughta do somethin’ to straighten ’em out one day.’

  ‘I still think it’s possible,’ replied King, stubbornly, though he sounded less convincing now. ‘It could happen.’

  ‘Never,’ chorused the other two men, with Raktambar adding, ‘Not ever.’

  As they progressed into the hills and mountains their situation worsened by the day. The paths became less distinct, the way more rugged and parched. Dust rose to fill their mouths, noses and ears. The heat of the day was intolerable. The nights were cold, bitter. There were snakes and scorpions and blinding relentless hot-wind storms. Crossman had a constant headache that robbed him of his concentration. It pounded from within and there was a terrible pain across the ridge of his brow that threatened to split open his skull. His water stung when he peed and his anus burned with raw fire. On the bottoms of his soles and on his single palm the skin had cracked, letting in sweat and dirt. He festered with sores on his buttocks and elsewhere. And waves of nausea came and went irregularly, swamping his gut with bodily sewage.

  They all suffered equally on that march.

  The maps King had brought were entirely inadequate and the group became lost in this khaki-coloured world where everything blended into one. Watercourses which were supposed to be there, were not. On one stretch, one interminable four-day slog, they had very little water and thirsted as they had never done before. They went along as if in a dream, their heads full of visions of waterfalls and streams, their horses stumbling over rock and stone, one of them falling to its knees in the dust and having to be put out of its misery with a single shot that echoed through the emptiness of the landscape around them. They were blind men in a blind land. Nothingness was behind them and nothingness ahead. All trained soldiers, they had experienced thirst before, had been on route marches that had torn the souls from their frames and left them flapping in the wind, but nothing compared to this unholy arid landscape where nought but dry lizards lay panting on stones, staring with unpitying eyes as they passed, and spiders scuttled from shade to shade, offering only a momentary distraction from their woes.

  ‘How can you be lost?’ grumbled Gwilliams at his sergeant, echoing the thoughts of them all. ‘You’re supposed to be the map man. Damn me, you can’t shoot, you can’t do much of anything. The one thing you’re meant to be good at is follerin’ maps, Sergeant.’

  King flapped the chart angrily, staring about him as if some rocky outcrop might suddenly leap forward and offer directions.

  ‘They don’t match up. I can’t help it if the maps are wrong.’

  ‘So much for your bloody Everest,’ muttered Crossman. ‘A two-year-old could have drawn a better chart.’

  ‘Everest didn’t map this region,’ growled King, defending his hero, ‘these are much earlier maps. They were probably done by some addle-brained lieutenant sent out here to quell the tribes.’

  ‘That sounds a lot like insubordination to me, Sergeant,’ rasped the dry-thoated lieutenant. ‘Be very careful.’

  They were all past the point of exhaustion, screamingly frustrated, and sick to death of each other’s company. Raktambar had withdrawn from the group completely. He rode and rested apart from them. Gwilliams’ sympathies at this time were as close to the Meerut sepoy mutineers as any living white man’s could be, he having a very low opinion of the British army in the first place. His lieutenant hated the very sight of his sergeant and the sergeant despised the lieutenant. It would have taken but a small spark to set them all on to each other with boots and fists. In fact it was probably only fatigue which did save them from a brawl.

  At least, Jack thought, as they struggled along, that mysterious pursuer would not be with them. Surely? To follow them into such bad country would be foolish indeed. Perhaps he would be waiting for them, if they ever came out alive?

  Crossman’s control of the march had sadly seeped away. Occasionally he had an insight into his own inadequacy and stared at it with horror, seeing the equivalent of a demon sitting there, mocking his self-confidence. Any arrogance he had owned was laying back there in the dust somewhere, dead on the ground. Aware of his failure, he fought to retain some sort of grip upon his own self-discipline. So far he had not actually cracked in public, even though there were myriad internal fissures. However, if they did not get water soon – one of them at least was drinking his own urine filtered through a sock – there would be serious consequences to the expedition.

  And they had to find their path! They had to.

  Then a blessed thing happened. He caught a movement in the corner of his eye. What was that? His head shot round and he studied a craggy hill to his right. Was that a man? The rock face seemed bare of life. Nothing moved. Despair entered his soul again. More delusions? More false visions? There had been several over the past week. Wait! A slight movement again. The clack of a hoof on stone. A mountain goat? Something like it, yes. There it was, camouflaged, blending beautifully into the rocky background. Yes, a goat, perhaps a wild antelope of some kind. It skittered over the ridge and was gone, down the other side.

  ‘Stay here!’ he yelled at his men, startling them and the horses as he dismounted. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He scrambled up the hillside in his filthy white cottons, the end of his turban fluttering in the airless regions. Up the slope he went, raising dust, sending scree and shale flowing down behind him. When he reached the top he stared about him, expectantly. At first he tasted bitter disappointment. Prayers that had been washing through him suddenly dried at source. Then, finally,
he saw it. A glint of silver. Down below in a deep bowl-shaped valley, was a thin stream like a string of mercury. Water!

  ‘Water!’ he yelled, hoarsely, through cracked lips. ‘Water!’

  Then his eyes shot back, fearful that he had seen but a mirage and knowing what effect that would have had on his men. They might have killed him if they had climbed up and found a lie. But no, it was still there, and not dancing in the haze in the manner of fata morgana. A stream. A blessed stream. He could taste the water from here. It was cool and sweet: made in heaven by the angels from their own dewy teardrops.

  Of course, when they reached it, it was a dirty little brook full of grit and sand, but it was still the best water they had ever tasted.

  They stayed by the watercourse for a whole day, reluctant to leave it and go out again into blistering oblivion. But having found it, King was able to trace it on his map and now had a rough idea where they were again. Gwilliams shot some pea fowl which were drinking further down the bank and a fire made to cook them on. The rancour of the previous few days suddenly melted away. Raktambar rejoined the group. It was not the jolly party which had started out – there were still wounds which would take time in healing and scars which would remain for ever – but at least they were back on speaking terms again. When they finally left the place, to travel north in the cool of the evening, they found they did not have to say goodbye to their newly-found friend just yet. They could walk alongside it. Even the horses were back nudging each other, though eight were now seven.

  In order to try to further close the rift, Crossman opened a conversation with King on the sergeant’s favourite subject.