Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  In the next street a woman stood like a frozen shadow in a doorway. She murmured something to him as he passed, but Crossman ignored the offer. Afterwards he mentally kicked himself, thinking he could have gone into the house with her, and sorted out any misunderstandings later. Then he suddenly found himself on a broad carriageway with a large park on the opposite side of the road. He crossed quickly and ducked into the bushes on the edge of the park, waiting there for a while.

  His pursuers did not appear and Crossman began to think they had given up their prey and had gone back to White’s or somewhere else.

  However, when he emerged from the darkness of the shrubbery, they were still there. They had pulled up some stout wooden stakes which had no doubt been supporting young trees on the periphery of the park, and were grasping them like cudgels. One of their number stepped forward and spoke.

  ‘You know me?’ asked the man.

  ‘I’ve heard your name,’ admitted Crossman, ‘but until this evening I could not put a face to it, Hadrow.’

  ‘I’m not going to wait on you with a blade in my hand on some misty common at six in the morning,’ stated Hadrow. ‘I’d rather get it over with now. I don’t duel with commoners. I horsewhip them. Or thrash them with some instrument more fitting to their station.’

  He smacked the club into his hand to emphasize his point.

  ‘And you plan to do that now?’

  ‘Beat you to a pulp, so that you keep your distance in future.’

  ‘Rather ungentlemanly.’

  Hadrow smiled. ‘My friends and I are not concerned with niceties when it comes to scum. We like to enjoy our evenings at the club without looking over our shoulders to find riff-raff like you waiting to pounce. I imagine after the beating you are going to receive now that you’ll stay away, Fancy Jack. I cannot for a moment think why Jane Mulinder should marry a common guttersnipe, even if she does have a faint whiff of the shop about her, but then she probably had little choice. I doubt anyone in my circle would offer for her now, if you get my meaning.’

  Crossman almost choked with fury inside on hearing these remarks, which had been delivered with an appropriate sneer. He wanted to snarl into Hadrow’s face that he was trashing the name of a far better person than he would ever be and that he was going to cut his heart out for the insult. He wanted to kill the man where he stood. Jane was his wife and someone he admired as well as loved. How dare this filthy braggart make such inferences! How dare he! And did it matter that her father had made most of his money through trade? But if the Crimean War had instilled one thing in Crossman it was that the man who is cool under fire is the man most likely to walk away. To lose one’s temper – to be seen to lose one’s temper – put one at an enormous disadvantage. He remained outwardly calm.

  ‘Ah, the Fancy Jack epithet. You do know who I am? I was beginning to hope it was all a ghastly mistake and that you’d got the wrong man.’

  ‘Oh I know all about you, Sergeant. Sorry, Lieutenant. Do you think your promotion entitles you to mix with real gentlemen?’

  ‘As it happens, my family name is as good as your own, but I’m not going to spoil this fight by telling you what it is.’

  ‘I know what it is. Crossman.’

  ‘That’s a pseudonym, Hadrow, but never mind.’

  The smaller of Hadrow’s companions stepped forward, wielding the stake in his hand. ‘Come on, St James, let’s get this over with.’

  Crossman drew the Tranter from his pocket and pointed it directly at the approaching man.

  ‘One step further and I’ll blow your face off, you snot-nosed excuse for a gentleman.’

  Crossman held the unloaded revolver steady, his arm level, not a sign of a tremble. The young man stopped and took a quick glance at his leader. Hadrow was staring at the gun, biting his lip a little in thought. Finally he shook his head at his hesitating comrade. Clearly none of the trio were armed themselves or perhaps they might have confronted him. They turned to leave without another word, but Crossman was having none of it.

  ‘Stay just where you are,’ he warned, ‘or I will shoot.’

  Hadrow turned back and stared at him.

  ‘You couldn’t kill all three of us,’ he said, ‘and if you only shot one, why you’d hang for murder, man, and you know it. Then where would your little wife be? A widow trying to live on a lieutenant’s pension? No, you won’t shoot anyone, Crossman.’

  ‘Oh, he will if I tell him to,’ said a voice from the shadows, ‘and of course I shall bear witness that Lieutenant Crossman was with me the whole evening. We walked back to my rooms together, then had a few drinks. The one of you that might live, for from what I recall from our experiences in the Crimea, Fancy Jack could certainly fell two running men even in the dark, would have our word against his. That is, if he lived long enough to testify. I think Jack and I have killed enough men between us now to consider it a simple act of revenge. You gentlemen have chosen the wrong men for your enemies. We are natural killers, Fancy Jack and me.’

  The speaker inhaled on his cigar which made the end glow enough to reveal his features.

  ‘Lovelace!’ Hadrow’s voice quivered. This is none of your affair.’

  There was genuine fear and alarm on the faces of the other two men, both of whom had taken a step or two back, as if divorcing themselves from Gilbert Hadrow’s friendship.

  ‘Oh, but it is. Jack Crossman and I are great friends. You see he really is going under an assumed name. His father is a baronet. We went to Harrow together, Jack and me. So it really is my affair too. Old school chums and all that. You understand.’

  Hadrow tried not to look impressed.

  ‘So, where does that leave us now?’ he sniffed. ‘If you think I’m standing here in the cold for very much longer, you’re both mistaken.’

  Crossman said, ‘I would like personal satisfaction, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘We have no weapons,’ Hadrow pointed out, tossing the cudgel into the bushes. ‘At least, not appropriate ones. I carry no pistol and neither of us is wearing a sword.’

  ‘Fists will do,’ replied Crossman. ‘Come on! Let’s get to it, before we both freeze to death.’

  Hadrow’s two companions looked decidedly relieved. They had already shed their makeshift weapons and were stamping their feet and clapping their gloved hands to keep warm. Hadrow removed his topcoat and carefully folded it before handing it to one of his friends. Lovelace dutifully followed his lead and came forward and took the revolver from Crossman’s hand. He also took Crossman’s topcoat and draped it over his arm, before patting his comrade-in-arms on the back and standing aside.

  Hadrow then came forward. He had obviously received boxing lessons, for his stance was quite professional. Indeed he jabbed Crossman in the face twice before Crossman struck him on the shoulder with a hard right. There followed a flurry of punches from Hadrow, who had clearly been taught to fell his man early in the fight, thus helping to preserve his good looks from a long and constant battering. Crossman evaded most of these punches, catching just a single one on the chin which made his eyes water.

  Finally the lieutenant saw the opening he had been waiting for. He stepped forward and struck his opponent full on the bridge of the nose with a half-clenched left fist. The sound was quite astonishing to the listening ears. It was a solid clunk followed by the ugly noise of cracking bone. Hadrow’s nose was splayed over his face and pouring claret on to the good earth of Hyde Park. Crossman followed up with a second left, which thudded into the same Hadrow feature. This time the duke’s son screamed in pain. A third solid crunch laid the man out. He fell backwards like a felled tree on to the hard ground, his blood spattering the white snow.

  There he lay, out cold.

  ‘When he wakes,’ said Crossman to Hadrow’s companions, ‘tell him to stay well out of my way in future. I promised my wife I would not blow out his brains, or run him through with a blade, but if he continues to seek me out I shall certainly do one or the other. Is that comp
rehended?’

  Two dumb nodding heads assured him that he was understood.

  The way in which Crossman was helped into his coat might have indicated the reason for his swift victory, if the other two men had been paying much attention. As it was they were too busy ministering to their unconscious friend. Lovelace slipped the Tranter back into Crossman’s pocket and the pair walked off arm in arm, southwards.

  ‘That wasn’t really fair, Jack,’ said Lovelace, laughing softly. ‘You might have warned him.’

  ‘That I have a fist of solid oak? Not on your life. Besides,’ he rubbed his left wrist, ‘that jolly well hurt my stump, I can tell you. I shall need some extra cream on it tonight.’

  ‘If I were you, old son, I shouldn’t waste a lot of time getting down to Southampton. Hadrow’s father is very influential, as most of our dukes still are. If you were French of course, post revolution, you’d be a hero. But our nobles retain their power and are not to be trifled with. Gather up Gwilliams and King and take the train to lower climes.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not hanging around either. I’m due in Sheffield tomorrow. Sheffield isn’t a place haunted by dukes. Good night, Jack.’

  ‘Good night, Nathan.’

  They parted on an appropriate corner.

  25

  ‘Captain Percival Deighnton,’ said the officer, standing over Jack and looking down on him. ‘You are Lieutenant Jack Crossman?’

  The man’s expression and demeanour told Jack this was not a friendly visit. He looked at the captain, trying to place him somewhere in his past. The Crimea? Possibly. Not before that. Before the Crimea, Jack had been a common private and privates in regiments of foot are creatures too low to arouse the antagonism of cavalry officers. In London then, during his short stay there? Again, possibly. White’s. Had he seen this man at White’s?

  The officer put Jack straight. ‘Gilbert St James Hadrow is a particular friend of mine.’

  ‘Oh,’ muttered Jack, wearily. ‘A vigilante.’

  ‘What did you say, sir?’ barked Deighnton. ‘Stand up, sir.’

  Jack stared mildly up at the face above him.

  ‘Go to hell – sir.’

  ‘You attacked and insulted my friend,’ spluttered the captain. ‘It must not go unpunished. If you please . . .’

  ‘Damn you,’ cried Jack, rising now, ‘you have no idea what you’re talking about. This is an affair over a lady, sir. I will not discuss it further. It is private business and Hadrow must answer for it himself. I promised the lady in question I would not cause her a fuss. And I did not. That peacock you call a friend challenged me. Not I him. Go and bother him, if you please, and leave me to my thoughts and my pipe. I have no time for officers like you.’ Jack was thoroughly incensed now, at having to speak of matters pertaining to his wife. He flicked the captain’s collar, ‘Primped up like some prize turkey. Go away before I forget my manners.’

  ‘You have forgotten your manners, sir.’ The officer’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. How he managed to look so immaculate in a place where the dirt crawled up one’s legs Jack had no idea. ‘I shall have satisfaction when this war is over, let me assure you of that. That is all I have to say, Lieutenant. Look to yourself, once we are back. I shall be there, waiting. This is no longer to do with Hadrow, this is between you and me. . .’

  ‘I’m not fighting some pompous ass just because he feels affronted when I won’t discuss my private business with him, you can be sure of that. If you feel the need to cross swords with someone, go and look for another ass like yourself. I have no quarrel with you. And I absolutely refuse to let you quarrel with me. Good God man, have you nothing better to do? Get married and start a family. Take up cards or croquet. Ride to the hounds. Anything, but leave me alone. You have far too much time on your hands, sir, if you need to fill it with trumped-up duels. Go away.’

  Deighnton stared at him for a full minute before turning on his heel and marching off into the night. Jack knew he had made another enemy, but where did these people come from? They had not the sense they were born with: somewhere between childhood and manhood their strength of reasoning slipped away from them, leaving their heads empty. He was quite willing to fight Hadrow, who had wronged his wife Jane, but not at all happy about fighting this Deighnton, who had nothing to recommend him except his friendship with Hadrow. Surely Jack was not expected to fight the whole bunch of them? Hadrow, having a rich and powerful father, probably had a hundred such friends. It was too much. Just too much.

  He lit his pipe again and puffed his indignant way through a whole bowl of tobacco in less than two minutes.

  26

  Many soldiers on the Ridge, including Jack Crossman, were becoming increasingly frustrated by General Wilson. It seemed to Jack and the others that Wilson was indecisive. Nicholson wanted to attack Delhi and so did his compatriots. The problem was that General Wilson would take the responsibility and blame for that attack, should it go wrong. So he dithered, as many would, and failed to come to a conclusion. Finally, however, the pressure became too great and he simply had to agree to an assault. Conditions on the Ridge were deteriorating by the day, his subordinates were straining at the leash, and the word was that his superiors in safer places were crying out for him to settle the business. Even Baird Smith, his chief engineer, urged him to assault the city as soon as possible.

  Baird Smith drew up a plan, based on the intelligence gathered by Hodson’s and Hawke’s men, which of course included Crossman, King and Gwilliams. The scheme was to breach the walls of the city with batteries of artillery and the use of mines. King drew great satisfaction from the idea that it was his report which had provided the weak point of entry.

  ‘Where else would they have got their information from?’ he said excitedly to Crossman. ‘We were the ones, I’m sure of it.’

  The lieutenant saw no point in discouraging this thinking in his sergeant: the venture had indeed been risky and there was no reason to suppose the report was not theirs.

  King, being in the engineers though not of them, helped to bring the first heavy battery into position. Many bullocks were used, and camels, to carry stores as well as drag guns. Those on the walls of the city did not allow all this work to go unpunished. They showered the working parties with canister and grape shot, causing many casualties. By the morning of the eighth of September the battery was in position.

  That day the engineers had their revenge on the rebel guns situated over the gates and on the walls of the city. The Mori Bastion, which had been the source of the withering fire power during the night, was destroyed by five guns and a howitzer. Shot was poured into the Kashmir bastion, causing great damage and consternation amongst rebel gun crews.

  Greatly encouraged by this, the British now went about establishing a second battery, which began to smash at the bastions and walls. Finally these guns actually breached the walls. Engineers and sappers moved steadily forward and established a third battery less than 200 yards from Delhi’s Water Bastion, from behind the Old Custom House. A mortar battery was sited. Those in the city did not allow all this work to go without reprisals and many soldiers on the British side died under fire. Crossman noted that a good proportion of these were Indian troops: pioneers who had remained loyal to the British armies. When one or more of their Indian comrades were killed, they would stop work to retrieve their bodies. They would grieve over them for a few moments, then would throw themselves back into their toil.

  ‘These people,’ said Crossman to Gwilliams, ‘are among the bravest soldiers I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You won’t get any argument from me,’ replied the corporal.

  In the afternoon, King returned. He had been in the thick of it, but had survived the blizzard of iron. There was no elation in him. He seemed sick and weary of it all. The deaths had taken its toll on his spirit.

  ‘When you’re out there,’ he told the other two, ‘it seems as if everyone is going to die. Men were dropping r
ight, left and centre, blood and limbs everywhere. Look at my uniform – gore dripping from the buttons. Not mine. Someone else’s. I wanted to scream stop at one point. Just stop. So that we could all gather our breath and spend a moment in silent prayer, before carrying on. Of course I didn’t, and nothing would have happened if I had, but the relentlessness of it all gets to the very roots of your soul and you reach the point were you can’t stand it another second. I’m not going out there again. I’ve had it. You can put me up against a wall and shoot me. I’d prefer not to go, you see, and witness that carnage any more.’

  Of course, Crossman did not force his sergeant to return to the task that day, nor on the subsequent days. In any case there was little work for engineers once the guns were in place. The cannons pounded Delhi with unceasing force. Bricks and mortar had showered through the several clays of the barrage, holes had appeared in the walls, the air was choked with building dust. Men and women on the Ridge could not help but derive satisfaction from the destruction. The walls were tumbling down and the rebels exposed to attack. Soon the British infantry would go into the streets of Delhi and the desperate fight for the survival of one army over the other would begin. So far it had been a war of big guns, but it was the foot soldier with his fire-lock who would decide who was to come away victorious.

  Five columns were formed, weak in numbers – in all 3,000 soldiers not including reserves – as many men had been lost in the siting of the guns. Crossman and Gwilliams were among these few. They joined the 4th Sikhs, in the second column, under a Brigadier Jones. It was an arbitrary choice. They might have asked to go anywhere, from the Guides to the Bengal Fusiliers to the Punjab Infantry. The 4th Sikhs was as good a regiment as any other if you were an outsider with no loyalty to a particular regiment. With them in the same column was the 8th Foot, a sturdy regiment. Then came the third column which included the Kumaon Battalion, under Colonel Campbell. Not the same Campbell under whom Jack had served in the Crimea, the ‘thin red line’ Campbell, but another. Then came the fourth and fifth columns. Brigadier Nicholson, the overall commander, was leading the first column.