‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘it’s a very hot evening to be fetching heavy water. I would like to walk with you down to the canal, if you care to have me accompany you.’
Jack was still unsure of who or what he had seen down at the canal bank and he was concerned for her welfare. She, however, seemed to think he had other motives for wishing to walk with her. She shook her head and walked on. Cursing himself for his stupidity, he strode out and caught up with her, only to have her turn and stare angrily into his eyes.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said, quickly. ‘I didn’t explain myself properly. My reasons are purely honourable, I assure you, ma’am. Earlier I saw a figure down by the water and it has worried me. I don’t mean to frighten you, so if you’ll just allow me to accompany you all will be well.’
Still she seemed suspicious. Perhaps she believed he had made up the story about the ‘figure’. He admitted to himself it sounded rather weak, for he was not totally convinced himself.
‘I am Lieutenant Jack Crossman,’ he told her. ‘You may ask of whom you please, you will find no one who has anything bad to say of me. No, no, that’s not quite true. There are some who have reason . . . Lord, I’m making a proper hash of this, aren’t I? Look, just give me your pail, you stay here and I’ll go and fill it. How’s that? Then you don’t need to walk into the darkness with me and nothing need worry you.’
The little girl said, ‘How can you carry it? With no hand?’
He looked down and saw that he was reaching with his left arm, the cuff of his sleeve yawning.
‘Oh! You’re right, young lady. Fortunately I have another one, over here,’ and he took the pail with his right hand. ‘I won’t be long.’
Jack went down to the canal. The lamp was black with midges and mosquitoes, with the odd moth flying in. In its light he dipped the pail into the canal and scooped up water. When it was full he stood up and looked around. He could see no one. Had he been hallucinating? Perhaps there was more in this rough Indian tobacco than met the eye? Shrugging, he returned to the waiting woman with the full pail, careful not to spill any.
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be unmannerly, but you know . . .’
‘I know,’ he said, terrified she was going to say it. ‘However, I’m a happily married man who loves his wife. God, you don’t need to know that, do you?’ A desperate change of subject. ‘What’s your name, little girl?’
‘Sarah, and I’m not little. You said I was a young lady.’ She looked at the pail. ‘You are our bhisti now, aren’t you?’
‘Sarah don’t be rude,’ admonished the woman. She then said to Crossman, ‘A bhisti is a water-carrier.’
‘I know. I don’t mind being a water-carrier. Well, where shall I deposit your pail, ladies? It’s getting rather heavy.’
‘Oh, heavens,’ said the woman, ‘it must be pulling your arm off. This way, please, Lieutenant, and thank you. I am Geraldine Stanton – Miss Geraldine Stanton. Sarah is my youngest sister. We had a house over there.’ She nodded towards Delhi. ‘My father was killed on the roof of our house, trying to protect us. My mother died two days ago. She had cholera but I think she died of a broken heart. I have three brothers, but thankfully they are all in England. I’m sorry, I’m chattering, aren’t I?’
‘You’re entitled, Miss Stanton. How did you and Sarah manage to get out of Delhi? Most were killed.’
‘Through the kindness of servants. Our chowkidar smuggled us out in native clothes. It was horrible. Horrible. How could they do this to us? We did them no harm. I hate them.’
He did not want to go into the multiple reasons, political and personal, as to why a nation might turn against its foreign rulers. Also, he did not point out that she owed her life to her servants, who had probably put themselves in great danger to save her. Perhaps she knew it. In any case, she was entitled to her feelings, given that she had seen her family murdered.
‘How are you bearing up? You and Sarah?’
‘We’re managing,’ replied Geraldine, with a wry smile. ‘Everyone’s most kind. Mrs Blakely’s looking after us. Or we’re looking after her. I’m not quite sure which it is. Mrs Blakely’s husband is a sergeant-major. I’ve never spoken to a sergeant-major’s wife before. She’s from Devon. Sarah finds her accent funny and she doesn’t mind that. She’s very kind.’
When they came into the light of more lamps, Crossman suddenly revised his estimate of this woman’s age. She was probably not thirty-five. Possible she was nearer thirty. Yet, being Sarah’s sister, how could that be? Such a huge gap in their ages.
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
She smiled. ‘You’re trying to guess my age, aren’t you?’
How did they do that? he wondered. Were they all mind-readers, these females of the species. Jane had the same ability. Men, he decided, must have their thoughts written on their foreheads!
‘I was nineteen last birthday,’ she said, laughing at his consternation. ‘I shall be twenty, soon.’
‘And I’ll be seven next week,’ piped in Sarah, ‘so you must come to my party and bring a gift.’
But Geraldine had seen Jack’s expression and she was obviously mortified.
‘I look much older, now, don’t I?’
‘No, no – I mean, it’s the dirt and the lack of sleep. Not your fault. Once we get you to a safe place, where you can bathe without fear of a shot landing in your tub, and nice clean clothes, why – I’m sure you’ll be the prettiest lady at the ball. Not that you’re unlovely at the moment, of course, but you could do with a scrub and some nice perfume . . .’
She laughed now at his awkwardness.
‘Lieutenant, I like you,’ she said, seriously. ‘If times were normal I should not be permitted to say that. You would think me fast and giddy, especially a married man who loves his wife.’ She was teasing him now. ‘And I would be shunned by my peers. But we’re here, on the Ridge, and the niceties of society need not apply. Thank you for your help.’ She took the pail from him and handed it to a large woman with a girth that a horse would envy, ‘And Mrs Blakely thanks you too, don’t you, Mrs Blakely? We’re very lucky to have a friend in Lieutenant Jack Crossman, aren’t we?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, m’darlin’, for he’s a hofficer and we’re not s’posed to have hofficer friends. The lieutenant shou’nt be helpin’ us, really. It’s not his place to serve us women. He can’t be carrying pails.’
‘Oh, officers are good at carrying pails, Mrs Blakely,’ Jack said, laughing. ‘I was a champion pail-carrier back in Britain.’
‘And you’ll come to my party?’ asked Sarah. ‘Won’t you, Jack?’
‘Sarah!’ admonished Geraldine.
‘No, no – it’s all right. I should be honoured, Sarah. If I’m working, of course I shall be unable to come. But if not, you can count on it. And,’ he bent down and said in her ear, ‘the gift will arrive whether I do or not.’
‘Oh thank you, Jack.’ Sarah clapped her hands.
Crossman left the women feeling a warm glow within. The encounter had cheered him enormously. It does not matter that a man has a wife he loves and intends nothing more than friendship with a lady new to his acquaintance: his ego screams with satisfaction when that young and beautiful woman finds him attractive. A man is a man for all that, as the poet said, and the rewards of an admiring look from a desirable woman are tremendously invigorating. He is puffed up with pride, full of himself, his vanity overwhelming his modesty, and he is content. This is not an admirable or commendable trait, but does wonders for his sense of well-being.
He went back to his bivouac again, lit his chibouque, and puffed it with great satisfaction. Later that night he was on duty. General Wilson had stipulated, quite rightly, that if you were on the Ridge you were available for any duty whatsoever. Officers made themselves available when and where they could, whatever their main work, whatever their regiment. After his tour of duty he
went back to his pipe again: a comfort blanket.
Jack was still puffing away, having supped a small glass of arrack, when a cavalry officer paid him a visit.
24
Jack Crossman left Betty in the kitchen and went up to his bedroom to put on a sober set of civilian clothes, preferring to go to White’s Club in mufti. It was not that he was ashamed to be in the army, but quite the reverse. The fact was, though there would be others in uniform, he had felt keenly that coachman’s jibe. Peacock. A uniform was fine for a strutter, but not for the quiet man of taste, when gadding about the capital city.
It was a very cold evening, with a light covering of snow on the streets and Crossman took a hansom cab to St James’s Street, to the oldest gentleman’s club in London. He was not a member, but Major Lovelace was and wished to meet him there to finalize arrangements for India. Crossman had been to the club a few times before, his father being a member, and was familiar with its reputation as a gentleman’s gambling den.
When he entered the club he was met at the doorway by Arthur’s keen eyes and felt himself under scrutiny. Arthur’s job was not an enviable one. He needed to spot an intruder immediately and eject him. But God forbid he should go up to an actual member of the club and request identification and proof of membership. Thus Arthur had to look for signs of underconfidence and lack of knowledge and all those other small indications that someone was uncomfortable and not in the right place.
Crossman was not a frequent visitor, was not known to Arthur by sight, but put the poor man’s fears at rest by giving his name and handing young James his topcoat and hat, and asking for Major Lovelace.
James it was who took care of the hats and canes, though he remained only just silkily visible behind a marble pillar, but Arthur always fielded any questions regarding members.
‘Lieutenant Crossman, sir,’ Arthur was clearly relieved to have a name at last. ‘Major Lovelace asked me to have you taken to him immediately you arrived.’
Arthur snapped his fingers and another man appeared out of regions unknown to lead Crossman through the various rooms of this one-time seventeenth-century chocolate house.
Lovelace was at a card table when Crossman entered the room. He played his hand, then made his apologies to the other players before joining Crossman sitting in a discreet corner of the room.
‘Don’t let me pull you away if you’re on a winning streak,’ said Crossman. ‘What is it? Chemin de fer?’
‘How did you guess?’
Lovelace too was in civilian clothes, but as always he looked the perfect aristocratic army officer. He was a little shorter than Crossman, but women other than Crossman’s wife or mother would have said he was better looking. Blond and blue-eyed, Lovelace had just the faintest touch of cold steel in his smile. His figure was enviable from the narrow waist to the broad expanse of shoulders, where the cloth of his coat covered his muscled back without a wrinkle. Crossman liked the major for many aspects of his character, but knew him to be a ruthless man in his work. He was Crossman’s immediate superior in the special duties area, the gathering of intelligence, for which Crossman had been chosen.
They shook hands and ordered drinks.
‘How’s the married man?’ asked Lovelace.
‘Very well,’ answered Crossman. ‘Very well, indeed. You should try it.’
Lovelace waved a hand through the air, dismissively. ‘Oh, that’s not for me. Too much responsibility. Besides, there’re not many Jane Mulinders around. I’m not a good judge of the ladies, you know. I’d end up with a very unsuitable one, I’m sure. Someone like our mutual friend Mrs Lavinia Durham. You’re a very lucky man.’
‘I know it. But you know, Mrs Durham . . .’
Lovelace held up his hand. ‘You’re going to tell me she’s very sweet underneath. But you have to admit she’s a little fast. I’d spend all my time fighting every man in the club. All right, don’t look at me like that – not every man. Anyway, we’re not here to talk about women. Have you met Sergeant King yet?’
‘Sergeant Farrier King? Yes, I wanted to see you about him. I’m not altogether happy with his approach to our work.’
Lovelace grinned. ‘A bit too self-possessed for a common sergeant, eh?’
‘No, no, it’s not just that. He seems to think the main objective of the team is to map the interior of the subcontinent. I tried to explain to him that our primary role is to gather intelligence, but he wouldn’t have it. You’re right, he is a bit too arrogant for my liking. Who does the man think he is? He’s only a sergeant, for heaven’s sake – a blacksmith’s son. Not that his father’s trade has any relevance, but damn it, I am his commanding officer.’
‘Only a sergeant? I seemed to remember someone who thought that being a sergeant was highly significant. Anyway, I didn’t say he was arrogant, I said self-possessed. Well, he’s all you’ve got. I think he has the makings of a fine spy. Let him think that he’s in it for the mapmaking, which he is to a certain extent. Lead him into the water gently or he’ll shy away from it, Jack. We need men like him who have a trained eye for the landscape. There’ll come a time when we have to send men into unknown territories and let them fend for themselves. A soldier who can find his way in a strange country by his recognition and use of physical geography will be an asset. Colonel Hawke is very impressed with him.’
Crossman could see he was going to get nowhere by complaining about King.
‘Well, I just thought I’d register my misgivings.’
‘Which you’ve done. Now, you’re all set for shipping out are you? Good.’ He leaned forward. ‘There’s some very strange things going on in India at the moment, especially in the Bengal army. Some talk about chapatties.’
‘What’s a chapatty?’
‘Oh, a pancake of coarse flour – unleavened bread, if you like. Watchmen and other local officials have been baking four or five and passing them on to others in the next village. It’s a very peculiar affair, but it’s almost like a signal. Some think it’s just some sort of religious rite, but, if that’s true, why has no one heard about it or seen it happen before? We’ve been in India a long time now and no one has heard of anything like it.’
‘By no one, you mean Europeans?’
‘Yes I do. Europeans, of course. It could be nothing. I mean, it does seem a little ridiculous to be concerned about natives giving each other presents of bread. I laughed when I first heard it and I’m surprised you’re not laughing now. But returned officers to Britain are treating it as quite sinister.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said Crossman, ‘that they might have been out there too long? A touch of the sun? Malaria? That sort of thing?’
Lovelace relaxed a little and shrugged. ‘You could be right. That’s what we’re supposed to find out.’ He signalled a waiter who nodded and left the room. ‘Here, I’ve brought you a present. Another wedding gift, if you like, but for you alone. Your wife would not appreciate it.’
‘Oh, really?’ Crossman said, perking up. ‘Something special?’
‘Indeed.’
The waiter brought a smallish parcel, which Crossman immediately unwrapped. When the brown paper was peeled back there nestled a revolver, like a bird in the folds of a soft cloth. Crossman did not take it out of its wrapping, since waving it about might have created alarm amongst the club’s staff, but he admired it with great pleasure.
‘A Tranter five-shot!’ he said. ‘Thank you, Nathan.’
‘To replace the one you lost in the Crimea.’
‘Yes, of course. I appreciate it, very much. With this,’ Crossman waved his wooden hand, ‘a revolver will have to be my main weapon. This one is perfect, with its cocking trigger as well as its firing trigger. All I need to do now is to learn to load it with my teeth.’
‘You can always get someone to assist you with that and you know it.’
‘No, no, I’m not being sarcastic – I really mean it – I shall learn to load it with my teeth.’
Lovelace shrugged again.
‘As you wish . . .’
Crossman rewrapped the gift and then leaned over to whisper something to Nathan Lovelace.
‘Do you know that man at the third card table? The one dressed in grey and with the pomaded hair? He’s been staring right into my face all evening.’
Lovelace left it a little while then casually glanced round as if looking for a waiter.
He turned back to Crossman. ‘Yes, I do. His name is Gilbert St James Hadrow. His father is a duke. Why would he stare at you? Do you know the family?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Crossman, grimly, ‘but I know now why he’s cutting into me like a blade. Thank you, Nathan.’
‘Do I get to know the secret?’
‘No, it’s very personal.’
‘All right then, I shan’t ask. Now, about the arrangements for travel . . .’
They talked for about an hour at the end of which Crossman rose and bade the field officer good night.
‘I shall see you in India then,’ said Lovelace, shaking his hand, ‘at a later date.’
‘Yes, sir. I shall look forward to our meeting.’
‘Good luck, Jack.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Crossman left the club with his parcel under his arm and went out into the night. It was even colder than when he had first set out and he shrank inside his topcoat. There was only a single four-wheeled growler outside the club, which was quickly grabbed by three older men who were leaving the club, so Crossman set out on foot.
Oh how he longed for the warmth of India. It would be a good day when the first rays of the southern sun fell on the deck of the clipper. To have Africa on his left side and the open sea ahead of him would be glorious. With these sunny thoughts in his mind he trudged through the dimly-lit capital, heading for his home in Knightsbridge.
It was only when he turned down a narrow cobbled street full of bookshops, all closed of course, that he realized he was being followed. Turning, he saw three men at the far end of the road. They stopped when they saw him turn. Another walker came into view, but passed by the end of the street, clearly nothing to do with the three who seemed to be tailing him. Crossman continued on his way, conscious that the footsteps behind him had quickened. Inside the deep right-hand pocket of his topcoat Crossman surreptitiously tore away the wrapping of Lovelace’s gift.
Brothers of the Blade Page 32
