‘No harm done,’ repeated Jack. ‘Well, I’m glad you think so. We’ll speak more on the matter, later. Where’s this famous map?’
‘It’s in my pack,’ replied King, walking towards the ruin where he kept his kit. ‘Over there.’
Crossman studied the chart with a keen eye for a long time. He was not in the mood for praise but he gave it anyway, nodding at the sergeant in approval. ‘Well, Sergeant, this is excellent. I’m beginning to understand why others think you’re useful now.’
King’s features shone. ‘Always glad to be useful, sir.’
In the morning, when Crossman went to see Colonel Hawke he found there, not Hodson, but his comrade-in-arms, Major Lovelace.
‘Nathan,’ said Crossman, pumping his hand. ‘I didn’t know you’d arrived in India.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the steely-eyed major, smiling. ‘Not the best of times to be here, is it? How are you managing? Is he worth his salt?’ he asked of Hawke.
Calcutta Hawke nodded his iron-grey head. ‘Did a good job up in the Punjab, going into Afghanistan. Now, Lieutenant, I’ve spoken with Major Hodson and we’ve agreed you’re to go into Delhi tonight. What we need is a survey of the inner walls, to find weak points. Hodson has his network of spies in there, but they’re all local people with little or no engineering knowledge. What we want is a firsthand assessment from within. How do you feel about that?’
‘As to going in, I feel fine about that, sir. But I’m no engineer either. Major Hodson suggested I leave Sergeant King behind, since he’s had little experience of this kind of thing. However, on reflection, it might be better to take him. He’s an engineer.’
Hawke frowned. ‘I thought you had an engineering background?’
‘No, sir. I’m interested in inventions, as a pastime, but I have had no training in engineering, none whatsoever.’
‘In that case, yes, you’d better use the sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir. We’ll choose our time tonight, depending on the moon. I’ve been studying one of the sergeant’s maps – a very good, detailed piece of work by the look of it. I thought we might slip over to the River Jumna and swim to beyond the Kashmir Gate where we’ll leave the water and crawl up the shore to a church which lies to the south-west of the gate, just inside the walls. We’ll use the church as a centre of operations, going out from there along the base of the wall. I’m also taking Ishwar Raktambar, my Rajput. If we’re stopped and questioned, he can answer for us, as my understanding of Hindi is fine, but my accent will give me away.’
‘Is that wise, to use the Rajput? There’re Rajputs by the thousand on the other side of those walls. Do you trust him?’
‘People keep asking me that, sir, and I can only reply that my intuition tells me he will remain loyal. I could be wrong. However, if it does appear that he might betray us, I won’t hesitate to kill him.’
Lovelace nodded firmly, believing that at last his chosen disciple had learned the art, or science, of expediency. The major would feel no compunction in killing a traitor. He expected his disciples to honour the same principle.
‘Good. Well then, good luck,’ said Hawke, shaking his hand. ‘You realize that there’s a good chance you won’t get back. We’ve sent two teams in there already and both have failed to return.’
‘No, I didn’t know that, sir – but of course it makes no difference.’
‘It can’t, can it? You’re a soldier. You must do your duty.’
Lovelace called to him, just before he walked away, ‘Seen any tigers yet?’
‘Not a single one. You?’
‘Yes, two already. Shot one of them.’
The lieutenant felt he was probably going to be the only British officer never to encounter a tiger in India. Well, that was all right. He’d seen plenty of mounted heads and knew what they looked like.
Crossman left the two field officers feeling excited but also apprehensive. So, they had already lost men in Delhi? Company men, no doubt. Hodson’s men. Well, they were probably amateurs. Jack now prided himself on being a professional spy. He’d had two fortunate years of it, in the Crimea. Of course the enemy had not been dark-skinned there, but actually after being in India for so long he too had darkened considerably. Not only that, his trekking had also weathered his hide so that now his sun-burned, wind-burned skin was the colour and texture of leather. King too, despite his freckles and reddish hair, had become darker. However, Jack intended to wrap the sergeant up, muffle him in swathes of cotton, to hide his features. There were Asians who did much the same with winding sheets.
He found the sergeant with Ibhanan, predictably discussing mapmaking.
‘Sergeant King,’ he said, ‘a word with you.’
The stocky sergeant patted Ibhanan on the back and joined Jack under the lea of a wall.
‘We’re going into Delhi,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I want you ready to move by midnight.’
‘What? An assault?’
‘No, no – not an attack. Just you, me and Raktambar.’
King looked slightly shocked.
‘Isn’t that almost suicide?’
‘No, not if you obey orders to the letter. If you ignore your own initiative and just do as I say, you’ll get out alive. If you don’t, then be it on your own head, I will leave you behind if I think you’re jeopardizing the operation or my own life. Do I make myself clear?’
‘I – yes – yes, very clear. What time? Oh, yes, midnight.’
Jack left the sergeant with his thoughts on the matter. He went back to his own quarters, which consisted of a tent draped over the end of a wall to form a bivouac. He had decided to tell Raktambar what they were doing only at the last moment. If the Rajput was a traitor, then he would have no chance to warn those inside the walls, or arrange some convenient ambuscade. Jack hoped the Rajput was loyal, indeed was sure of it, but there were others involved. He trusted his own feelings, but it was right that he didn’t allow that trust to enfold others.
Not long after he entered his bivouac there was a furious attack from the city, the sepoys using a building known as Metcalfe House, and the surrounding vegetation, as cover to get within musket range. Musket balls were everywhere, smacking into the brickwork of Crossman’s wall, striking tree stumps nearby, and snicking off a nearby flagpole. Bugles were blowing and drums were rattling, calling various companies to arms.
The Gurkhas were the first to answer the call to arms in any great number, pouring from their resting places fully dressed and armed, some with kukris in hand. The picquets had already been overrun or forced back to the lines when the Gurkhas passed them, charging at the oncoming sepoys, the little men from Nepal true to their regiment and their salt. They were followed by a mixture of Sikhs and Pathans of the Punjab Infantry, who did not want to be seen lagging behind at such a time. European troops, some of them in a state of undress, came relatively late to the call.
Jack went out to assist, as many other officers did, though only as a soldier not as a leader. The native regiments had their own officers, both European and Asian, and did not need others to confuse them. Jack simply went down to empty his revolver at the sepoys. Once that was done, he stood with sword in hand, ready to repel any that slipped through the ragged lines of the defenders. In the end he was not needed.
Loss of life on this occasion was severe, especially amongst the sepoys. How anyone could accuse them of cowardice was beyond Crossman, when they threw themselves at their old rulers with such fierce effort. Back near the walls of the city, women could be seen, loading muskets for them, and if sepoys did retreat before it was necessary, these women drove them back into battle with abuse and sticks. How the Honourable East India Company had fallen, to have earned the fury of mothers and wives.
The attack lasted about forty minutes, then the bombardment started again, the shot falling like solid metal eggs from the gods.
In the early evening, the Reverend Stillwell came to visit Jack, having left enough time to regain his dignity.
‘Good even to thee, Lieutenant, my old friend,’ said Stillwell, ‘and will thee be coming to my songs of adoration later tonight?’
‘No, you must forgive me, but I beg to be excused. I have other matters to attend to, Mr Stillwell.’
‘More important than praising Our Father.’
‘Not necessarily more important, but being my duties I can’t ignore them, I’m afraid. I do beg your pardon.’
Stillwell looked suitably affronted on behalf of the Christian deity.
‘Well, if that’s the case, I shan’t try to persuade thee. I just wish thee would remember there is a higher duty, a higher calling, than that of the army.’
‘Fortunately, God doesn’t preside over courts martial,’ muttered Crossman, ‘or I might be argued into changing my mind.’
‘I heard that, Lieutenant, it sounded very like blasphemy to my astonished ears. In fact thee might well suffer many lashes in that place to which the sinner goes. I hope thee might not regret thy decision.’
‘If you’re within earshot, Mr Stillwell, I shall hum along with you.’
The reverend was not absolutely sure that Jack was not mocking him further, but he contented himself with pursing his lips. He stood staring at Jack a long time before leaving him to his chores. Once he had gone, the lieutenant, who had only been fiddling with his clothes and boots in order to ignore the minister, lay down on his bed in relief.
‘One more minute,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and we might’ve had Mr Stillwell’s head on a plate.’
At midnight Crossman was ready to enter the city of Delhi. He took no firearms, since there was swimming to be done. A knife was his only weapon and that was simply a comfort blanket. His attire consisted of light cottons which he hoped would not hamper him in the current. He had darkened his skin with berries Raktambar had given him. The Rajput had suggested it, saying the stain would not come off in the water. When King arrived at his bivouac they did the same with him. Then Crossman explained the mission to his two comrades, before they set out for the river. Happily, the moon was a haze of dim light behind some cloud cover.
Their own picquets had supposedly been alerted to the fact that they were passing through their lines, but Jack took along the duty officer just to make sure. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by some eager sentry. It was less than half-a-mile to the water’s edge, but it was possible there were sepoys on that ground and thus after they had passed the last picquet they crawled on their bellies, stopping every minute or so to listen for sounds of concealed men. Indeed, when they were within two hundred yards of the riverbank, they heard the clatter of a pot and heard whispers. Somewhere near, the enemy were squatting. They crept past a clearing in which seven men sat, their muskets stacked like a sheaf of corn between them.
They snaked their way down to the river and slipped into its waters. Raktambar was not a good swimmer and insisted on staying within his depth, close to the shore. Crossman and King were very competent in the water and were able to go further out, into the darker areas. Soon Jack too had to move in until his feet touched the bottom, his missing hand making the swim more tiring than he first thought it would. The current was with them going north to south so the task was not a matter of effort, but one of controlling stability and direction in the swiftish flow.
It was unfortunate that he had to go closer to the shore: he was in graver danger than his Hindu comrade. At least if Raktambar were caught they wouldn’t shoot him immediately. Being a Rajput he could stall his captors for a considerable time. Fortunately, though there may have been sleeping sepoys on the bank of the river, none were awake enough to notice dark heads moving along just off the water’s edge.
When they had passed the silhouette of the Kashmir Gate, King swam shorewards to join them. The three men crept up on to the river’s beach and lay down in the black comfort of shadows, there to gather their breath and get their bearings. It was disconcerting to find there was a lot of activity going on in the streets ahead of them. This was no sleeping city: many were up and about. The smells of cooking assailed them, along with those of spices and woodsmoke. Even though the guns had been silent for hours there was the strong odour of gunpowder in the atmosphere.
‘Let’s get to the church,’ whispered Crossman. ‘We can move out from there when it becomes a little safer to do so.’
When they got to the church, however, they found it occupied. Sleeping bodies were everywhere. Instead of entering the building, they went into a small graveyard at the back. There they waited, crouched by some headstones, for the city to settle a little more. Crossman knew that Delhi never entirely went to sleep, but it seemed wise to remain where they were until the streets had fewer people wandering through them.
Indeed, about three o’clock in the morning there was a lull in activity. The soldiers left their hiding place and walked along the inside of the city wall, making mental notes all the time. King seemed a little nervous but Crossman noted that the sergeant did not allow his state of mind to interfere with his ability to assess the strengths and weaknesses of the defences. For his part, Jack too made notes, yet always remained alert for signs of Sajan. Like King, he wanted the boy back in their fold. He was a little more upset by the boy’s defection than the sergeant, but he still did not want to see Sajan executed – and executed he would be, if caught by the British with rebels. His age would be no protection, any more than it was for a cabin boy on a man-o’-war or a drummer boy in an infantry regiment.
Of course, there were young boys everywhere. With the other homeless they littered doorways and the edges of the narrow streets, blocked the alleys with their slumbering forms, and were draped over rooftops. It was maddening not to be able to inspect each one closely, just in case, but that would have aroused great suspicion. As it was they were stopped twice by people wishing to talk. A Musselman asked if they had any bread and Raktambar was left to explain that they had no food and indeed wished for bread themselves. Then a staggering sowar halted them, clutching on to King’s arm. It emerged after a few moments that the man had a terrible headache and was violently sick in front of them. He was not drunk, he was genuinely ill and was suffering badly with the pain.
King simply peeled away the sepoy’s fingers and walked on, as any other Musselman or Hindu might do. If you met a sick man, you avoided him. If you came across a dead one, you ignored him. If a beggar accosted you, you either gave him half-an-anna or kicked him aside, depending on your religion and your disposition.
The three men walked the mile between the Kashmir Gate and the Kabul Gate. To go beyond the Kabul Gate was unnecessary, for the British would only attack on that mile stretch, it being the most accessible and directly in front of the British Lines. When they had covered the necessary ground they turned back again, repeating the exercise in the reverse.
‘I think I have it,’ muttered King to Crossman. ‘I think I know where the weak points happen to be.’
‘Good, then we can get away from here.’
‘We haven’t seen Sajan,’ the sergeant said, disappointed. ‘He must be here somewhere.’
‘Yes,’ replied Crossman, his eyes scanning the packs of sleeping young bodies, ‘somewhere.’
‘Sahib,’ Raktambar said, ‘can you not ask your friend Major Hodson’s spies to watch out for the boy?’
‘But how will they know the right one?’ asked the lieutenant. ‘There are so many.’
‘They may have ways.’
Turning a corner they suddenly came up against a crowd which blocked the way between the buildings and the wall. It seemed a tall thin man was having visions. The mob had allowed him space inside their circle and he was spinning slowly staring out at the faces. The pupils of his eyes were dilated, as if he had been smoking bhang or some other substance, and he pointed outwards with one hand. A ragged skirt around his waist swirled about him as he spoke out in a high shrill voice, the crowd remaining stunned by the strangeness of his words, both awesome and entertaining.
Cross
man and the other two could not force their way through the mob without drawing attention to themselves.
‘There is fire,’ shrieked the Hindu prophet, ‘with writhing bodies in it. Serpents rise from the flames – serpents with wings – and all they gaze upon turn to stone. Tigers crawl from giant eggs and tiny crabs emerge from anuses of ordinary men to drop like scales from a lizard’s back.’
On and on this self-styled prophet gabbled, about women giving birth to calves and men growing the heads of pigs.
‘It is a time when all the world’s terrible shapes are twisted and mangled into other forms and none know who or what they are . . .’
The man suddenly stopped and appeared to vomit into his hands – when he opened his palms he revealed to the crowd a knot of leech-worms bloated with blood, squirming, falling between his fingers to the earth.
King made a shocked sound of disgust and horror, but in the general reaction to the prophet’s activities no one took notice.
‘The end of the world comes,’ cried the prophet, wildly. ‘It is the firinghis who bring it upon us, dragging us into the fathomless pit along with themselves, down into the darkness of the damned.’
To Crossman’s utter consternation he stopped twirling and pointed with an accusing finger directly at him, crying, ‘Ha!’, before swooning away in the dead faint of a frenzied man with an overheated brain.
Fortunately for the lieutenant, most of the crowd’s eyes were on the limp form of the prophet on the ground. But two or three were staring at him, not with menace but with curiosity. Who was it that the man seized with visions had indicated, and why? Did he too have a message for them? Were they to learn more about how their fate was entwined with the foreigners to their land, who brought nothing but death and destruction with them?
Crossman’s eye caught that of Raktambar, who seemed at a loss to know what to do next. Should they run before the mob realized they were intruders? Or should they draw their knives and fight their way through to the river? Either way it seemed they would be overcome. Then Crossman lifted up his empty sleeve-end and waggled it in the faces of the lookers.
Brothers of the Blade Page 30
