All the while they travelled they had no idea what was happening in the rest of India. When they had left, the garrison at Meerut had mutinied and there had been several other uprisings in other places in Bengal. For all they knew now the British might have been wiped from the face of the subcontinent, or the mutinies quelled and things returned to what was normal for northern India. However, one night they met two mounted Akalis, Sikh religious warriors, who had become detached from their irregular Punjabi regiment during a night march. The two men were – as was their wont – carrying an excessive amount of weaponry each, including musket, two swords, several knives and steel-throwing quoits with razor edges which served as bands around their turbans.
‘How far have you travelled, sir?’ asked one.
When he told them they had journeyed the whole length of northern India and had then gone on to Afghanistan, the Sikhs pursed their lips.
‘How unfortunate for you, sir.’
‘You do not like to be on the move?’
‘The Punjabi for I am travelling is I am suffering.’
‘I suppose the answer to my question then, is no, you do not – whereas we British love to journey through strange lands.’
‘Yes, sahib, but this is not a strange land, it is a common one.’
He had no answer to that. Instead, he asked them what was the state of affairs now in the rest of India.
‘Sir,’ said one, ‘there has been many more mutinies. We have had rumours from Cawnpore of a terrible massacre. Also in Lucknow, where our forces are besieged. No one knows what is really happening but the news is not good. There are stories of many deaths and some of escapes, but who can tell what is going on so many miles away?’
He reeled off a staggering list of names, where the uprisings had taken place, and Crossman listened with a lump in his throat. It did indeed sound as if the whole of India had risen with one hand on the sword and the other on the throat of an intruder. However, later, Raktambar went over the names with him and told him they were almost all in Bengal, and that it did not seem as if the other two Company armies, the Madras and Bombay, had yet joined with their brothers in the north of the country.
‘Also, sir,’ said the second Sikh, ‘there has been a British defeat at Chinhut.’
‘Chinhut? Where’s Chinhut?’
‘It is near Lucknow, sir. A very bad defeat.’
Gloomy news indeed. Crossman stirred their first fire for two weeks with a stick and contemplated the future. It all depended on the size of the force that had been crushed of course, if that’s what they had been. The soldier seemed certain that it was a terrible blow to the British, but then, when an army had been viewed as invincible for so long, any defeat was looked on with great anxiety by one side and great joy on the other. Such victories were thus blown out of proportion by both sides. At such times few could take a step back and view a battle objectively. This, coupled with rumour and misinformation running amuck over the land, served to produce no really accurate picture of the events. Crossman suspended judgement.
They ate a meal together consisting wholly of vegetables, since Gwilliams had not been able to shoot any game for days. The two Sikhs said they would accompany the lieutenant and his men to meet the Movable Column ‘under General Nicholson, sir’. So far as Jack could remember John Nicholson had still been a captain when he had left Ferozepur.
‘Are you sure about him being a general?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir – brigadier-general.’
‘Ah, a brevet rank, no doubt, to meet the occasion.’ Still, it was quite a leap, from captain to general. Someone had great faith in John Nicholson.
Later, Sergeant King came to Crossman and whispered in his ear, ‘Can we trust these people, sir? They are natives after all. I have nothing against them, as such, but we’re fighting for our lives here.’
‘I know what you mean, King, but you have to make a distinction between Sikhs and Bengalis. They’re traditional enemies. So far it’s only been the Bengali sepoys who’ve mutinied. We’ll keep a close watch on them and hope they’re not of the same mind as the Bengal army.’
They were back in their saddles as soon as they had rested and as they rode Jack questioned the Sikhs further.
‘What’s happening in Delhi?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘Yes,’ said the tallest of the two, ‘Delhi is in the hands of the rebels, many thousands of them, but there is a ridge to the northwest which has been captured by the British. I do not remember the name of the general sir, but I know of one officer sahib they call Major Hodson. They are the Delhi Field Force who have captured the ridge and now fire guns into the city and also the Corps of Guides is there, sir, to help them. This is where General Nicholson is going now – to Delhi, to kill the rebels. I do pity them, for General Nicholson is a most ferocious man. It has been my privilege, sir, to see him cleave a man’s skull in two with one stroke of the sword.’
This man Nicholson was a demi-god in the eyes of some of the local people. Major Hodson’s name was also known to him, but in connection with Colonel Hawke. Hodson had formed a network of informants and was therefore in the same business as Crossman himself. The spying business. Jack and his men would have to hurry now, if they were to catch the Movable Column at Amritsar, where the Sikhs had put Nicholson’s camp.
They rode all that night and the next day and when they arrived at Amritsar the young General Nicholson had just left, on his way to Gurdaspur to intercept a rebel force of over a thousand horse and foot – sepoys and sowars who had killed their British officers at Sialkot – on their way to join their comrades in Delhi. Nicholson was hoping to defeat this small but dangerous enemy force and thus strike a psychological blow. Any victories, however minor, were worth their weight in morale.
Crossman reported to Colonel Hawke who seemed quietly satisfied with the success of their mission.
‘Well done, Lieutenant. You have opened your Indian journal and the first page has been written. I am very pleased for you and Major Lovelace, your mentor, who is now on his way to India, I might add. Now we must join with our countrymen and do some ordinary soldiering. You have heard that a flying column is on its way to Gurdaspur?’
‘Yes sir, I was going to ask if we could catch it up and join it?’
Hawke frowned. ‘You surely want to rest up first?’
‘Sir, we’ve been travelling almost non-stop since we left you in Ferozepur and a few more miles will make no difference.’ Crossman shrugged. ‘It’s become a way of life. My backside is now the shape of a saddle. Once one is used to it, it ceases to weary one. I should not know what to do here, waiting. If there’s any action to be had I would like to be there, rather than sitting on my . . .’ He stopped, suddenly, embarrassed by the inference. After a short silence, during which Hawke looked out of the window, he continued with, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean – that is . . .’
‘That’s all right, Lieutenant. I’m quite happy to be sitting on my arse, for the moment. You go off and join Nicholson’s column. Do you wish to take your sergeant and corporal with you?’
‘If they want to go, sir. I’ll give them the choice.’
‘That’s a little too democratic for my taste, Lieutenant – the army was different when I first joined it. So be it. I’ll see you when you get back. By the by, here’s a bunch of letters for you.’ He tossed Jack a bundle tied around with a rough piece of string. ‘They arrived two days ago. The mail still gets through, despite the empire teetering on the brink.’
Crossman took them eagerly, noticing the top one bore the handwriting of his brother James, but certain others were from Jane.
‘There’s two in there for King and one for Gwilliams, also.’
‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate them.’
‘Let’s hope they all carry good news. One is so far from home. If anything untoward occurs there is little we can do from here.’
‘Yes sir, thank you.’
King’s mouth set when he was
asked if he wanted to accompany his lieutenant, but Gwilliams volunteered straight away. The sergeant, after letting out a very audible sigh, said he would join them. Raktambar was not asked, but when the fresh mounts and provisions had been obtained, he was there waiting for the other three, as if there was no question of him staying behind. Where Crossman went, Raktambar went. It was as simple as that, though he kept stressing he was not the ‘faithful servant’ of the officer. He was simply doing his duty as ordered by the maharajah.
There was over forty miles to cover to Gurdaspur. The four horsemen soon realized that they would have to pace themselves, for General Nicholson was pushing his men hard. The ‘flying column’ that Nicholson had taken with him was composed mostly of the Queen’s army 52nd Light Infantry, mounted Pathans and Punjabis and – Crossman had been told – around a dozen guns of the horse artillery troop. On the ride, however, the four kept coming across fatigued and sick men of the 52nd who had dropped out of the march and were either on their way back to the main camp at Amritsar or waiting to be picked up when the column hopefully returned.
‘How far ahead?’ Crossman called to one group of three, resting in the shade of a tamarind tree.
‘Not far,’ came the reply. ‘Two miles at a guess. They’ll be a halt at Patiala.’
The four had so far ridden quite a distance before they caught up with the flying column. The infantry was a bedraggled looking sight, but Jack could read determination in the mouths of the marchers. Here for the first time he caught sight of John Nicholson, a very imposing figure, tall and straight in the saddle, grim-faced, broad-shouldered, with a black beard and a seemingly isolated air about him. It was if this stern Irishman rode alone, the men around him mere wraiths that followed his aura. He rarely seemed to acknowledge anyone except a huge Pathan who rode to his right and was no doubt the famous bodyguard Jack had been told about by Raktambar. There was the suggestion of enormous strength in Nicholson’s frame and not only physical. There was a spirit lodged in there which was indeed carved from the same granite as his physical stature. He appeared to be just a few years older than Crossman himself.
Crossman rode up and reported to the brigadier-general, who inclined his head slightly as the lieutenant spoke.
‘Lieutenant Crossman, sir. 88th Connaught Rangers. On special duties in India. Beg permission to join the column.’
Grey eyes flicked over Jack’s Pathan clothes, but no mention was made of the fact that he was not in uniform.
‘Granted, Lieutenant.’ There was a pause during which Jack knew something else was coming. Then, ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Jack reined his mount and fell in with his men to the left of the marchers. He saw one man drop to the dust, going down like a toppled log. Then a little later, another keeled over sideways, held up by the man next to him until he could be shuffled out of the column. These casualties of sun and sickness were carried and laid in one of the carts drawn by ponies, of which there were many. It seemed that General Nicholson had bought a number of these before setting out, to carry men and provisions.
The column moved on, the men quite obviously very thirsty, for they were licking slaked lips and their eyes revealed their distress.
Jack counted nine guns, not twelve as he had been led to suppose. The 52nd themselves looked a very depleted force of men. The Pathan and Punjabi cavalry seemed in better condition.
An artillery officer was summoned to speak with Nicholson and afterwards rode over to Crossman. He nodded at Ishwar Raktambar.
‘Your man,’ he said. ‘Where’s he from?’
‘He’s not Indian army, if that’s what you mean,’ replied Crossman. ‘He’s an ex-palace guard, from Jaipur.’
Raktambar kept his eyes to the front, not revealing his feelings of being spoken about as if he were not there to hear it.
The officer said, ‘The general’s not keen on Hindus at the moment.’
‘Understandably,’ replied Crossman, ‘but this man is completely trustworthy. I will vouch for him.’
‘Not good enough. Colonels have vouched for men who’ve turned on them and shot them from their saddles. A few hours ago we disarmed half the 9th Bengal Light Cavalry, who were also protesting that they too were completely trustworthy. The other half of their regiment is up ahead waiting for us and ready to cut us down. Fact is, old chap, you can’t trust any of ’em at the moment.’
‘You’re speaking of sepoys and sowars of the Bengal army. This man is my personal friend, not a Company soldier.’
Raktambar now intervened. He drew his sword and took his carbine from its saddle holster. These, along with a pistol and a dagger, he handed to Gwilliams. ‘Now you have disarmed me, sahib,’ said Ishwar to the artillery officer, ‘just like the 9th Bengals. Is that satisfactory?’
The officer’s face took on a sour look. ‘Is he being insolent?’
Crossman said, ‘It didn’t sound like it to me. It sounded like he was complying with your request.’
The officer gave Raktambar one more suspicious look then rode back to report to his general. Jack wondered whether Nicholson would still demand they rid themselves of the Hindu, but there were no other approaches.
Gwilliams, so bundled up with arms he couldn’t hold his reins, said, ‘What do I do with this lot?’
‘Wrap them in a blanket and strap them to your horse,’ replied Jack, then to Raktambar, ‘We’ll return them to you later.’
Raktambar nodded, obviously satisfied his dignity was intact.
The march continued with no further incidents befalling the four additions to the column.
When they finally reached Gurdaspur, Crossman could see that there were only around just over 200 infantry still on their feet. Heat stroke and sheer fatigue had taken a heavy toll. A velvet black evening was coming in and the exhausted troops rested for the night. There was milk and rum, and bread rations, which were handed out. Jack and his men had brought some dried meat with them, some of which they gave away. Now that the march was over the soldiers seemed a little more cheerful as they spoke in whispers around their fires. Why they kept their voices low was one of those common mysteries, but this often happened on the eve of a battle. Nicholson strode among them, giving them heart. He rarely spoke, but his presence was enough to strengthen the spirit of fighting men.
The artillery officer came to Jack and said, ‘Sorry about that, back on the march, old chap. Orders, you know.’ It was an apology of a kind and Jack graciously accepted it.
‘Of course. My man understood.’
‘Fine. See you in the melee tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be there,’ replied Jack. ‘Not much else on. I’ve already cancelled my game of tennis.’
The officer smiled. This was the kind of banter which army men approved of, before going out to die. It was very British.
A little later, King said, ‘Sir, how many enemy are we facing?’
‘I was told a little over a thousand.’
‘But we’re down to a quarter of that number.’
‘And? You would like me to ask the general to call it off?’
King shivered, uncomfortably. ‘No – no, I was just remarking, that’s all. I’m not worried. We’ve been outnumbered before.’
‘Many times,’ said Gwilliams, ‘and it ain’t gonna be the last.’
Raktambar said, ‘I will not be able to fight.’
‘Do you want to?’ asked Jack. ‘They are sepoys.’
‘I feel naked without my weapons.’
‘Gwilliams will give them back to you, just before the battle – only, Corporal, do it discreetly. I don’t want the general down on my head afterwards.’
‘Right.’
They slept fitfully, as men always do before a battle, if they sleep at all.
In the sharp morning light, Nicholson took his flying column a dozen miles to the edge of the Ravi River at a ford known as Trimmu Ghat. There they discovered the mutineers lined up ready to fight. The enemy infantry
were in order of battle with the other half of the 9th Bengal Light Cavalry on their left flank. If they had left as a mob when they had mutinied, they were back to being disciplined soldiers again. One has to admire them, thought Crossman, for this was no rabble but an organized group of rebels. They made a proud and colourful sight, some of them still in their Company uniforms.
‘Spooky,’ muttered Gwilliams. ‘Like fighting our own.’
‘You were right about us being outnumbered,’ Jack murmured to King at his side. ‘There they are.’
‘But we have the Enfield,’ King replied. ‘They don’t.’
It was true the superior rifle was in the hands of Nicholson’s troops, the Indians scorning the weapon which needed greased cartridges. The enemy was still armed with the old Brown Bess. Jack recalled how the Russians had been slaughtered by the British Minié musket-rifles, back in the Crimea, the Russian smooth bore muskets similar to the Brown Bess. The new rifled barrels sent a conical ball out with such devastating force it was accurate up to a thousand yards or more and would pass through four men if they were packed in a column one behind the other. Such fire power gave heart to men who were lined up in inferior numbers.
It was the enemy who fired first and then, bravely, thought Jack, charged the British guns with their bayonets. At the same time their cavalry spurred themselves forwards, into the hastily made squares which the 52nd formed to repel such attacks. Harsh volleys thundered from the Enfields, then rattled along the lines after the reloading. Guns fired swarms of grapeshot into the oncoming charge. The British delivered a stern lesson to the sepoys, whittling down their ranks as they came on. Once again the air was full of whining, whistling metal, seeking targets. Crossman saw a sepoy fling up his arms as he was struck somewhere on his body, his thrown musket coming down bayonet first into the back of one of his comrades.
The battle was quite a short affair. Crossman had only time to discharge one set of chambers on his revolver, while King and Gwilliams used their carbines. The Enfields and the field guns took a swift and merciless toll of the charging enemy troops before bayonets were crossed. In a quarter of an hour the mutineers’ ranks had been broken and they were in full retreat, running back towards the river. King whooped loudly and rode off to join Nicholson and his Pathan and Punjabi cavalry, chasing the rebels. King’s sword was out and he was waving it above his head in the wildest fashion, riding in the wake of the young general.
Brothers of the Blade Page 26
