Jack glanced toward the British barracks, from which smoke and flames spiralled to the sky. 'No,' he said softly, hating himself. He felt O'Neill stiffen. 'We stick together, sergeant. There are thousands of these sepoys here; if we break into small formations, we're inviting them to destroy us piecemeal.'
'Yes, sir. But the women, sir.'
'The barracks are aflame, O'Neill. The women won't be there now.' Jack did not say that they all may be dead, like Mrs Pringle. 'We'll move toward the firing.' He set off again with his company in formation, stamping their boots and looking for blood. Jack had never known such anger in British soldiers. He remembered the men after Inkerman when they had been incensed at the Russians' bayonetting British wounded. This situation created a deeper hurt; the men felt shocked, betrayed and outraged by the murder of their women.
'Sir!' Ensign Shearer had been physically sick. Now he pointed a shaking finger at the bungalow of Lieutenant Harris. 'Sir; oh my God.'
The sepoys crowded outside, laughing as they tossed something back and forward outside the burning building. Jack only watched for a moment before he realised they were throwing a baby boy in the air and laughing as they caught him. The child's cries of fear rose high.
'Oh, dear God!' Jack said. 'Prentice; keep the men in check. O'Neill, accompany me with a picket.' He was moving before he had finished speaking, running toward Harris's home with his revolver in his hand.
Sepoys crowded around the bungalow, mixed with a sprinkling of servants and a few men Jack did not know. However, he recognised the tall man who caught the baby boy.
'You!' It was the Pathan servant who had spilt a drink on Irvine at the guest night. 'Sarvur Khan!'
The Pathan lifted the baby by his left leg and casually tossed it upwards and backwards into the bungalow. For a second the child's screaming body was lit by the orange flames, and then it vanished into the fire. The screams increased and ended with a whimper. Jack squeezed the trigger of his revolver as a surge of sepoys rushed toward him. He shot two; swearing, and then O'Neill and his men fired a volley. The sepoys parted and ran, leaving bodies on the ground. Sarvur Khan was not among them.
'Where is the bastard?' Jack looked around as the private soldiers bayonetted the sepoy wounded. 'Reload.' He felt his anger rise. 'What kind of people murder children? Who does that sort of thing?'
'Sir,' O'Neill was at his elbow. 'Over there.'
There was a bank of white powder-smoke ahead, with either the same mob of red-coated men or another group attacking another of the bungalows. 'Elliot!' Jack said softly. 'That's Elliot's house.' He allowed himself a humourless smile. If anybody organised resistance, it would be Elliot.
'Form a square,' Jack ordered. 'Move forward and if anybody tries to stop us, shoot them flat.'
The men gave a grim cheer; not the full-blooded roar of British soldiers going into battle but something more subdued, more savage. He had given the correct order in the circumstances. If he had said 'no quarter', he knew it would be both welcomed and obeyed.
They moved forward step by step until the sepoys realised what was happening and turned toward them.
'Fire' Jack said. 'Don't wait for orders. Fire at will and be careful; our men are in the bungalow.'
Faced with this new advance by an unknown number of disciplined soldiers, the mob of sepoys scattered. 'Keep in formation!' Jack ordered when some of his younger men surged forward in pursuit. He raised his voice. 'You in the bungalow! I am Captain Jack Windrush of Number Two Company, 113th Foot!'
'Lieutenant Elliot, sir.' The welcome answer came through the crackle of flames and the incoherent roar of the crowd. 'With half a dozen men and a few civilians!'
'Bring them out, Elliot. The sepoys have gone for the minute.' Jack kept his finger on the trigger of his revolver, hoping the sepoys would return so he could kill. He watched as Elliot emerged with six men, two of them wounded, and a gaggle of servants, with two British civilians.
'Sir.' Riley's spoke from the ranks behind him. 'My wife…'
'The men's wives and children, Elliot? Any news of them?'
Elliot was tired and smoke stained, with the front of his uniform jacket torn. He held a revolver in his right hand. 'Yes, sir. Colonel Jeffreys' packed them off to Cawnpore three days ago when we heard there was trouble brewing.'
Jack felt the relief pass through his men. 'Mrs Pringle was left behind, and others.'
'Yes, sir. Mrs Pringle said her son was too sick to travel and most of the officers' wives refused to go with the rankers.'
Jack swore; the officers' women had put class differences before their safety. Class was the curse of British society. He did not ask what happened to Harry Pringle. 'Tell me more.'
'The sepoys just rose sir. It was quiet yesterday, tense but quiet and then very early this morning they just erupted and attacked everybody.'
'Both native regiments?'
'Yes, sir and the sowars as well. They must have arranged it in advance.' He hesitated as loud shouting came from the darkness around. 'I've seen one man running between the groups of sepoys, sir, as if he was organising them.'
'Who?' Jack guessed the answer even before Elliot spoke.
'Sarvur Khan sir, the colonel's servant.'
Jack nodded. 'We'll deal with him later, I promise you. Have you heard from the colonel, Elliot? Or Major Snodgrass?' Jack heard somebody shouting close by, the words indistinct but Urdu.
'The Major went with the rankers' families, sir. He took an escort of twenty- five men from Number One Company.' Elliot started as a rifle cracked. 'Sorry sir, my nerves are a bit on edge.'
'That's not surprising,' Jack said. 'If Snodgrass took twenty- five men, and I had Number Two Company, there would be about eighty men of the 113th here.'
'Yes, sir.' Elliot agreed.
'Where are they?' Jack looked around. He saw Captain Irvine of the Bengal Native Infantry spread-eagled on his back with a score of ugly gashes in his body and face. Only a few days ago he had praised the loyalty of his men.
'They were in the barracks when the sepoys mutinied,' sir,' Elliot sounded near-hysterical. 'As far as I know, the sepoys barricaded the doors and set the buildings on fire.'
'Dear God,' Jack said again. 'They were burned alive? Our men?'
'Yes, sir. I got some of the pickets to my bungalow.' Elliot was striving to control his emotions.
'You did well Arthur.' Jack looked up as a rifle fired nearby, then another.
'The sepoys are recovering, sir.' Prentice said. 'They're collecting again.'
There were groups of sepoys gathering in the shelter of the bungalows with white trousers and cross-belts gleaming in the sun. The tall figure of Sarvur Khan moved from group to group, talking to the Naiks and Havildars.
'Time to move,' Jack decided. 'We'll take a quick tour of the cantonment, show the flag and get out.'
With the servants and civilians in the centre of the square, Number Two Company moved slowly around the cantonment. The scenes were shocking, with bungalows on fire, pet dogs hacked to death and a litter of British and servants' bodies across the lawns or sprawled over the cactus plants. The smell of burning bodies from the barracks was nauseating.
'Unless they are surrendering,' Jack ordered, 'if any sepoys come close, shoot them.'
He marched the square around the officers' bungalows, hoping some survivors might creep from cover, hoping the sepoys would attack so he could have them destroyed.
'There's the colonel, sir,' Prentice said. 'What's left of him.'
Colonel Jeffreys lay on his side, faintly ludicrous in his embroidered nightshirt and with his sword in hand. A dozen wounds seared his body, and somebody had crushed his head. Insects were already busy on his corpse.
'Murdered by those he thought were friends.' Jack said.
'Yes, sir.' Prentice did not say more. They moved on, across the pucka road and onto the area occupied by the other ranks. Two sentries of the 113th lay on their backs, one with an expression of surprise on hi
s face and a bullet hole in his chest, the other with his bayonet bent and a score of wounds in his body. A single sepoy lay at his side, moaning softly until Logan kicked him to death. Coleman and Thorpe watched without expression.
Riley pulled Logan away. 'Come on Logie; Charlotte may still be here.'
'She's not here, Riley,' Jack said quietly. 'All the rankers' wives and children were sent away.'
There were more bodies inside the compound, a confusion of butchered corpses where men had run from the burning barracks and into the rifles and bayonets of the waiting sepoys. None were fully dressed; some had jackets and no trousers; some were in their underclothes, and two or three were fully naked. There was an ugly growl from the men as they saw how their comrades had been cut down and hacked to pieces as they lay helpless on the ground.
'Poor buggers had no chance,' Elliot said.
'The sepoys murdered them,' Kent spoke in little more than a whisper.
'That's what it was; pure bloody murder,' Elliot agreed.
'We'll get the bastards,' Logan said. 'Just you wait, you filthy black murderers; we'll get you.'
'Sir,' O'Neill said softly. 'Somebody's moving over there.' He nodded to the left.
'A sepoy?'
'I dunno, sir. I saw movement behind the store hut. I don't know who it was.'
'Right, sergeant.' Jack knew he should send a sergeant or a junior officer with a picket to investigate. 'I'll go.' It was the wrong decision; it was a bad decision, but Jack wanted to kill; he wanted to rend and destroy more than he had ever wished to do so in his life. This terrible betrayal of trust, this mutiny by men on whom the British had relied, this appalling breach of loyalty, had shaken him, so he wished to strike back.
'Logan, Coleman, Thorpe; come with me.' Deliberately choosing Crimea veterans, Jack left the security of the square and ran toward the store hut. The door hung on one hinge, the windows were smashed the roof smouldered and sparked, yet it was in better condition than most of the buildings in the cantonment.
'I'll go ahead, sir,' Coleman said. 'It's not right for an officer to go first.'
'Stay behind me, Coleman,' Jack hauled out his revolver, booted the sagging door open and thrust inside. 'Halloa!'
Although the interior was dense with smoke, sufficient light seeped from the smouldering thatch to reveal that the hut had been looted. The remaining contents were strewn over the floor in a confusion of uniforms, shakos and belts, ammunition pouches, neck-stocks and a hundred other items the military mind thought was indispensable to the art of legal slaughter.
'Sir!'
The elderly corporal whose duty had been to look after the store hut had died at his post. He lay spread-eagled with a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead and a look of astonishment on his face.
'Rest easy, Corporal Greener.' Jack stepped over the body and peered into the hut. About forty feet long, temporary walls and doors divided it into compartments. 'Is there anybody in here? Show yourself!'
There was a faint rustling, and Logan was immediately down on one knee with his rifle pointing.
'Only a rat,' Thorpe said. He looked around. 'These sepoy lads have a lot to learn about starting a fire,' he said. 'My Aunt Alice could have done a better job than this.'
'You can teach them next time,' Coleman muttered.
Revolver in hand, Jack took three short steps. 'Come out! Come out you sepoy bastard so I can shoot you!'
Kicking down each door as he came to it, he glared into each compartment in turn before moving on to the next. 'There you are!' He saw movement in the second last. Stepping forward, Jack saw a mass of dark hair, extended a hand and hoisted the owner upright. 'Right you bastard! Oh, sorry miss!'
The woman grabbed his arm. 'You're British,' she said. 'Oh, please God, say you're British.'
'Captain Jack Windrush, Ma'am, 113th Foot.' Jack stared for a second.
'Who did you say?' The woman was about forty, with the light olive complexion of a Eurasian. Her eyes were brown and nervous.
'Captain Windrush of the 113th.'
'Oh, thank God!' The woman's shoulders sagged although her eyes never strayed from Jack's face. 'Captain Jack Windrush. I thought … The sepoys … They've been killing us.'
'You're safe for the minute,' Jack did not want to give false hope. 'We are number Two Company of the 113th. The sepoys control most of the cantonment, so we're leaving soon. What is your name?'
'Jane,' the woman hesitated slightly. 'Jane Niven. And before you ask, yes I am Eurasian.'
'How do you do, Miss – Mrs?'
'Mrs,' Jane said. 'I'm widowed.'
'Well, Mrs Niven, we'll soon have you out of here.'
'Wait,' the woman put a hand on Jack's shoulder. 'There are two of us here. Mary!' She called sharply. 'Mary: it's all right; they're British.'
There was movement from a corner, and another woman appeared. She was younger, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties and trembling. Tears moistened her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
'It's all right, Missus,' Logan said awkwardly. He touched a hand to the brim of his shako as if in salute. 'We're the 113th. We're not sepoys.'
The woman stood close to Jane, looking at the soldiers as if they were monsters from a gothic horror story. She held her ripped clothes together to cover herself.
'Mary had a rough time with the sepoys,' Jane explained. 'She's a bit wary of soldiers now.'
'Not surprising, Miss,' Coleman tried to help with rough humour. 'Anybody would be a bit wary of Thorpey.'
'You're safe with us, Miss,' Logan said. 'We'll rip any bastard who tries to hurt you.'
'Watch your language, Logan.' Jack said. 'Thorpe, check outside; Logan, take the rear, Coleman, look after the ladies.' He followed Thorpe outside, where the heat smashed them like a hammer, and Number Two Company fought their impatience as they waited for him to emerge.
'What is happening now, sir?' Elliot straightened his tunic as he spoke.
'We're leaving before the Mutineers get themselves properly organised,' Jack said. 'We don't have sufficient men to retake and hold the cantonment against their numbers.'
They left the cantonment by the pucka road, marching slowly to allow the civilians to recover and keep up and after an hour, Jack ordered them onto a track that led west and south.
'Where are we going?' Jane asked.
'Honestly, I am not sure,' Jack said. 'I want somewhere secure to consolidate and discuss what's happened.'
'There is an old temple about two miles away,' Jane said. 'Not many people know it's there and there is no reason for the Mutineers to visit.'
Jack nodded. 'Do you know the way?'
'I would not have mentioned it otherwise!'
'Take us there, then,' Jack ignored her outburst. Anybody who had been through what she had could be excused frayed nerves.
Without speaking, Jane led them on to another, even smaller track where they had to walk in single file and watch their feet for snakes. Jack sent Elliot to the front and counted his men past before he took a position in the rear, the place of most danger. If anything happened, he wanted to be in the centre of it, not two hundred yards away.
He shook his head. His world had turned upside down, but he was still a soldier, and he had his duty to do. That was something secure to hold onto.
Chapter Four
Much overgrown and colonised by monkeys, the temple was in ruins, with massive buildings decorated with ornate carvings while a very welcome spring bubbled in the centre of what had once been a beautiful courtyard. Strange gods and goddesses peered down at these northern intruders through a tangle of invasive trees and creepers.
'Elliot; set up a defensive perimeter,' Jack ordered. 'I want three men at each corner and a picket of five men to patrol the area.'
'Yes, sir,' Elliot said.
'Once you've done that, report to me. You too, Prentice, Kent and Fairbairn. Leave the ensigns and NCOs in charge of the defences.' Jack gave a little bow to Jane and Mary. 'If you
two ladies could join us, you would be very welcome.'
'Why them?' Fairbairn asked. 'They're women and civilians.'
'They were also in the cantonment when the sepoys mutinied,' Jack said. 'Their information could be valuable.'
'They're Eurasian,' Fairbairn said. 'Why are they still alive when we saw the white women killed? They might have sided with the Mutineers.'
'They didn't,' Jack said softly, 'and I'll thank you not to question my orders again, Mr Fairburn. Not if you know what's good for you.' He held Fairburn's gaze until the lieutenant looked away.
With the men busy digging trenches, making rifle-pits and clearing fields of fire in case of attack, Jack brought the officers and women into the courtyard and under the blank gaze of a prominent many-armed Hindu deity, invited each to tell his story.
'The day after you left,' Elliot said, 'Colonel Jeffreys got notice of impending trouble. There was a mutiny at Meerut on the 10th you see.'
'The devil, you say!' Jack said. 'Meerut's a major cantonment!'
'Yes, sir. It's worse at Delhi. Three native regiments, the 38th, 54th and 74th Bengal Native Infantry, mutinied and grabbed the city. They proclaimed the old Moghul Emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, as Emperor again and all sorts of rebels are flocking to the Peacock Throne.'
'Dear God,' Jack tried to digest this ugly piece of information.
'There's more, sir. The sepoys at Mean Meer were also grumbling and threatening mutiny. Their commanders had them disarmed and sent home.'
'Dear God in heaven. The whole Company army is revolting!' Jack took a deep breath. British power in India rested on the three Company's armies: Bengal, Madras and Bombay. The overwhelming majority of Company soldiers were Indian, with only a handful of European units supplemented by a few Royal or Queen's regiments. If the native regiments rebelled, then Company control in India was in serious jeopardy.
'Yes, sir. That is the fear.' Elliot stopped for a second to gather his thoughts. 'The reports were confused, and Colonel Jeffreys was concerned in case the Gondabad sepoys may emulate their cousins elsewhere.'
Windrush: Cry Havelock (Jack Windrush Book 4) Page 7
