The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  It was cool enough in the shade for Jack to bear being outside, and he stood enjoying the relative peace. He had not slept well, the comfort of the charpoy too much after so many nights spent either in the dak or in a caravanserai. And he had slept alone. He had heard the soft murmur of voices through the night as Aamira and her mother eased the pain of months of separation in constant conversation. Jack had gathered that Aamira’s Irish father had deserted them when she was no more than six years old, answering the call of the drum when his regiment was recalled to England, abandoning his new family as he returned to the wife and the children he had left behind. Years later there had been no one to protect Aamira when the men came for her, her small family powerless against the local dacoits who sold young girls to the men in the distant cities with a need for pretty and youthful flesh.

  Jack started as he heard a cannon fire. He looked round and saw a smudge of dark grey smoke spreading out from one of the bastions on the walls of the Red Fort. The single shot marked the arrival of sunrise, the first smudge of light pushing through the murk on the far horizon to greet the start of another day. It marked the commencement of the day’s fast, the Muslims in the city forced into abstinence for the next dozen hours.

  Aamira arrived silently at his side. He only noticed her presence when she slipped an arm around his waist. He looked down and saw the dark smudges around her eyes, the grey puffiness of a night passed without sleep. Yet she wore a contented smile, and he forced away the spark of jealousy that he felt at seeing her delight at being home.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ They both spoke in the hushed tone of dawn, the quiet voices of those trying hard not to disturb any in the household still sleeping.

  ‘For bringing me home.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  Aamira wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled her head against his chest. She didn’t speak for some time. When she did, her voice was small. ‘You fought for me.’ She looked up at his face. ‘You killed for me.’

  Jack said nothing. He felt the chill hand of death send a single shudder running down his spine.

  ‘You frightened me then.’ She was speaking faster now. ‘You killed those robbers like you were plucking chickens. Like it meant nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t.’ His voice was cold as he gave the lie, doing his best to ignore the ghosts her words had summoned.

  Aamira didn’t look away. She saw Jack’s eyes focus as if he were looking at an object a thousand yards distant. She had seen the same look before and she knew he was lost in another world. She pulled him close, pressing her body to his, hoping that the warmth of her flesh would bring him back to her.

  They stood together in silence and watched the sun rise.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jack put down the cloth he had been using to clean his revolver and pointed to the thin column of smoke rising from a street not more than four hundred yards from where they sat.

  The balcony was cool; the canopy above their heads sheltered them from the scorching power of the relentless sun that was still many hours away from its zenith. They were three floors up, high enough to see out over the rooftops of the houses behind Aamira’s family kothi whilst enjoying the fresh breeze that blew over the city from the direction of the Jumna river.

  ‘It is coming from Daryaganj.’ Aamira sounded weary. She had been dozing, her sleepless night leaving her without the energy to do anything but sit and rest.

  Jack was bored. He wanted to know more of the city he had journeyed so far to find. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  Aamira sighed. ‘It is the smallest mohalla in the city. You cannot trust the beggars who come from there. They are cheats. Liars. Swindlers.’

  ‘They sound like my kind of people.’ He got to his feet, walking to the edge of the balcony so that he could peer through the lattice to study the column of smoke that was building steadily. ‘What are they burning? Isn’t it hot enough already?’

  ‘They are fools in Daryaganj. Anything is possible.’

  Jack was in no mood to sit and idle the day away. He disappeared back into the house for several minutes before emerging back outside with his field glasses. The brass felt wonderfully cold against his forehead as he brought the glasses to his eyes and panned slowly over the city. All seemed calm. He followed the antics of a pair of tiny kite hawks that turned and wheeled on the breeze, swooping and diving as they hunted over the rooftops. They fascinated him, and he tracked them as they raced away, heading towards the Jumna river, which skirted the eastern edge of the city.

  A sudden commotion caught his attention, and he focused the glasses on the streets that ran down to the Jumna. The river drew in early-morning bathers by the hundred, but instead of the sight of people enjoying their ablutions, he saw panic.

  The streets were full of men, women and children, running, heading away from the river and flooding back into the city.

  He felt the first stirring of unease. He looked in every direction, trying to see what could have caused such a commotion. He found nothing. A part of him wanted to ignore it. The heat had started to beat down on to the top of his skull, and it was tempting to retreat into the shade and pay no attention to the little tic of fear that had started deep in his gut.

  ‘Jack, either sit down or go for a walk.’ Aamira delivered the admonishment with a smile.

  ‘I think I’ll go out for a while,’ he replied in an even tone, hiding his anxiety. He was rewarded with nothing more substantial than a languid flick of her hand.

  He shook his head and left her to stew in the heat, only pausing long enough to pick up his revolver and its pouch of ammunition. He would go for a walk and see if he could lose the whisper of danger that was murmuring in his ear.

  Jack walked along the empty street. Even his limited experience of the city told him it had to be rare for no one to be around, and the lack of people worried him.

  A man scurried quickly across the end of the narrow street. Jack walked towards him, only to stop when the man turned. He saw the look of suspicion on the thin face. It was the same look he had seen on the faces of the men in the tea houses the previous evening, the flat stare and narrowed eyes as they spied the firangi far from where he should be.

  The man hurried away, leaving Jack alone once again. His instincts were fully alert now. He listened carefully. Far in the distance he heard a sound he recognised at once, one that he had heard too many times before not to be certain of its origin. It was the sound of gunfire, of muskets being discharged.

  He stopped in his tracks and sat down on the step of the nearest house. It would take several minutes, but his sense of danger refused to disappear and he would not take another step without his revolver sitting loaded, primed and ready in its holster.

  As he sat and began carefully but quickly to go through the ritual of loading the five-shot revolver, he smelt the bitter tang of smoke. Either the smoke from the fires in Daryaganj was drifting his way or something closer was burning. His unease flared. Whichever it was, it could only be a sign of trouble.

  He loaded the five chambers with deft fingers, pouring powder into each one as carefully as he could before ramming a ball home. He kept looking up, scanning the street for the danger that he was sure was close. When all five chambers were loaded, he sealed each with a dab of grease that he kept in a small glass jar for the purpose. It would prevent a misfire, or worse still, a flash fire that would see more than one charge ignited by a single spark and render the gun useless. He had learnt to be careful; to do everything he could to make sure the weapon did not let him down.

  The thin-faced man reappeared. His kurta was stained, and the pagdi wrapped around his head was frayed and tatty. Jack recognised him as one of the city ruffians, a badmash who would cut your pocket, or your throat, without a moment’s hesitation.

  He snapped his revolver shut and thrust the weapon into the holster on his right hip. He left the flap unbuckled.

  He heard shouting a
nd got to his feet, keen to find out if he was right to be uneasy, or if his instinct was playing him false. He had no intention of skulking in the shadows and was determined to discover an explanation for the strange events he had seen through his field glasses. The rest of the kothi were still and silent. He saw vague signs of life, the shadows of people moving behind the latticework screens, yet no one ventured out to join him in the street.

  He heard the sound of a horse’s hooves and forced himself into a run. He was dressed only in a white cotton shirt and loose trousers but he felt the sweat begin to run freely over his body. The street was shaded by the tall town houses, so it was only as he burst out into the open square at its end that he felt the full force of the sun blast into his skull.

  He saw a troop of native cavalry riding past on the opposite side of the square. They wore the silver-grey tunics of the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry. The sight made the breath catch in his throat. The Bengal Lights were not a regiment he knew well, but he had fought with the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry in the recent campaign against the Shah of Persia. The sight of the dark-faced native troopers was so familiar that the feeling of dread that had dogged him since he had first spotted the panicked flight of the city’s bathers disappeared in a single heartbeat.

  He raised his hand, his first thought to wave and call out to the British officer he expected to see leading what looked to be a single troop. The gesture stopped before it was more than half formed. He scanned the ranks of sawars again, but there was no white officer present. He screwed his eyes against the glare of the sun. Something was wrong. He took in the unkempt appearance of the troopers: the unbuttoned jackets and open, stockless collars, the mix of drawn and sheathed sabres, the lack of correct spacing in the ranks. No officer would allow his men into the city in such a condition.

  Jack eased himself back into the shadows, his instincts once again singing out in danger. The sound of a commotion erupted from the far corner of the square. A fine black buggy tore out of a side street, the grey-bearded driver whipping his pair of ponies hard. Even from a distance Jack could hear the man roaring in terror, his panicked shouts urging the animals to greater speed. He was driving as if the very hounds of hell were after him.

  The sawars of the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry saw the buggy and immediately spurred after it. Their loud catcalls and whoops reached Jack as he pressed himself against the cold stone of the nearest house, the coolness of the shadows doing nothing to dampen his fear. The horsemen rode fast, jostling one another as they chased after their quarry, their horses snorting with excitement as their riders spurred them on.

  A large crowd charged into the square in the wake of the galloping buggy. Jack heard their yells, the angry roar of the mob. He saw the mismatched array of swords, clubs and axes raised above their heads as they bayed for blood. At first he couldn’t understand what they were saying, the feral screams unintelligible. Then he caught a single phrase, shouted over and over as they chased the terrified driver of the buggy.

  He had no idea what could have happened, what could have sparked the wild behaviour he was witnessing. But one thing was now obvious. Delhi was no longer a safe place for an Englishman and his half-caste companion.

  It was time to run.

  Jack turned and ran. He heard the triumphant roar as the sawars of the Bengal Lights caught up with the fleeing buggy. He heard the first scream. The sound rose to a crescendo before it was cut off abruptly, the cheer that followed leaving him in no doubt what had happened to the grey-bearded fellow who had tried so hard to escape the mob.

  The thin-faced man he had seen earlier jumped out into his path. Jack had no time to change direction and could do nothing to resist as he felt himself grabbed around the shoulders. The back-street ruffian might have been slight, but there was strength in his wiry frame, and Jack was thrown hard to one side and pinned to the wall of the nearest kothi. Flecks of spit splattered against his face as the cut-throat bellowed his success, his mouth open wide in delight.

  Jack squirmed in the man’s grip, twisting this way and that as he tried to escape. Try as he might, he couldn’t break free. He saw every detail of the man’s sallow skin, and the threadbare, scraggy beard that surrounded the fetid mouth with its handful of ragged brown teeth. The man’s thin hands grasped his arms with fingers like claws, and his jagged fingernails dug painfully into his flesh.

  Jack’s anger built swiftly. He knew what would happen if the mob in the square heard his assailant’s triumphant shouts. He would be torn to pieces, his precious revolver no defence against such a horde. With his arms pinioned, there was nothing else for it; he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the inevitable pain, before smashing his head forward, driving it into the centre of the badmash’s face.

  The impact was brutal. Jack felt the warm splatter of blood across his face, the crunch of teeth splintering under the force of the blow. The thin-faced man staggered backwards, his wild cry silenced. Still he gripped Jack’s arms, his fingers clinging on even as his face was pulped. Jack spat once and drove his head forward again, ignoring the pain that flared in bright white agony, as if a red-hot poker had been driven through the centre of his skull.

  The second blow landed square on the man’s nose. This time the badmash fell away, his hands rising to cradle his face as he crumpled to the ground. Jack had no thought of mercy. Even as the man writhed on the ground, he lifted his leg high, then drove the heel of his heavy boot into the blood-smeared hands.

  The man went still and Jack made to move away, but his vision blurred and the world turned grey. He shook his head, cursing at the pain. For a moment he thought he would fall, and he was forced to lean on the wall he had been pinned against, holding on to it for support. Slowly his vision cleared, the worst of the pain fading, and he forced himself into a trot. He did not glance back at the man who had thought to capture him.

  He heard another smattering of gunfire, the cough of muskets easily recognisable to someone who had led the attack against the Russian redoubt at the Alma. It was the sound of battle, the noise of men fighting. It did not belong in the centre of a peaceful city, and he felt a tight knot of fear tie itself deep in his gut.

  He raced down the familiar side street where Aamira’s mother lived, cuffing away the blood that coated his face. When he reached the house, he careered up the stairs, his boots skidding on the stone steps, the blood caked to his heel nearly sending him sprawling.

  He burst on to the balcony to the rear of the house to find Aamira fast asleep.

  ‘Aamira! Get up. Quick. We’re leaving!’ He rushed across and shook her awake, careless of hurting her, the urgency of the moment overriding any thought of being gentle.

  He waited long enough to see her eyes open and focus before he bounded away, his thoughts turning to grabbing his knapsack and his talwar.

  ‘Jack?’ Her voice cracked as she struggled awake. ‘Jack, what is it?’

  ‘Grab anything you want to take. We have to leave.’ He stuck his head back outside. ‘Right now!’

  ‘Why?’ She came to her feet. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ he shouted from inside. ‘The place has gone mad.’

  Aamira staggered to the lattice fretwork that screened the balcony. She peered out. It took only a quick look at the columns of smoke dotted across the rooftops for her to recognise that she was not being misled. ‘I don’t understand. What can have happened?’

  ‘It’s a riot or a mutiny – I don’t know.’ Jack came back out to the balcony. His knapsack sat squarely on his shoulders and he was doing up the last of the buckles on the belt that would hold his talwar around his waist. He grabbed Aamira by the arms and pulled her close so that his face was inches from hers. ‘But whatever it is, it’s not good for us. We have to leave. And we have to do it now.’

  Jack was certain Aamira was in as much danger as he was. Her neighbours would know of her parenthood, and her pale skin would mark her out as a half-caste. They would have seen the firan
gi officer who had brought her home. It might not be enough to condemn her, but he would not take the chance.

  Aamira nodded, slowly comprehending that something truly dreadful was happening. Her face fell. ‘My mother!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She went to bathe in the river. She is out there somewhere.’ She turned to look outside, her face creased in concern. Flames were beginning to leap in the sky above Daryaganj; great columns of smoke swirled and twisted across the rooftops, their bitter, acrid smell smothering the city.

  ‘Then there is nothing we can do.’ Jack’s words cut through her distress. ‘She knows the city. She will find somewhere safe. We must do the same.’

  Aamira rallied fast. Jack nodded in appreciation. Where some young women would have railed against him, Aamira simply understood.

  She pushed past Jack, heading quickly indoors. Jack walked to the lattice screen and scanned the skyline. Flames and smoke could be seen in nearly every direction. He looked down into the street behind Aamira’s family home. The shopkeepers there were rushing to board up their premises, desperate to protect their goods from the madness that had taken hold of the city.

  ‘I am ready,’ Aamira called from inside. She had wrapped herself in a bright multicoloured shawl and rammed a wide-awake straw hat on her head.

  Jack stepped towards her. ‘What’s the quickest way out of here? Out of the city?’

  Aamira understood at once. ‘The Rajghat Gate. Five, maybe ten minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Right. That’s where we’re going. God knows what is happening, but I want to get us as far away as possible. We’re not going to stop for anything, no matter what we see. This isn’t my fight. My only concern is getting you out of here.’

  He saw the understanding in her eyes. There was nothing more to be said. He checked his holster was unbuckled and that his talwar was loose in its leather scabbard. Then he reached forward and took Aamira by the hand. He fixed her with a thin, grim smile.