The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack turned away. He would not watch as the sepoys butchered the innocent people with their bayonets, the drill taught by their British instructors now put to such a vile purpose.

  Aamira pulled at his hand, leading him away. ‘Those poor people. Why are they doing it?’ Her free hand went to her throat, her fingers carefully taking hold of the crucifix she wore.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The reply was lame, even to his own ears. He watched her closely and saw her fingers tense, as if about to rip the slender gold chain away. He reached forward and gently placed the crucifix back against her skin, carefully folding her clothes around it.

  ‘I will keep you safe, I swear.’ He gave the promise willingly, but not lightly. He had learnt to his cost what it was to make a vow only to see it count for naught against the power of fate. Yet he would die before he failed to keep this one.

  Aamira searched his eyes. She nodded slowly, as if reading some deeper meaning in the intense grey stare that locked on to her own. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘You tell me. Where will there be British soldiers?’

  She closed her eyes. She was clearly in shock, and he squeezed her hand, trying to offer some reassurance.

  ‘The magazine. There will be British troops there.’

  He nodded, accepting her choice without a murmur. ‘So be it. This time you’d better lead.’ He fixed her with a grim smile. He was rewarded with a flicker of one of her own.

  They walked slowly and carefully, sticking to the shadows. At the first hint of any noise they hid, using the alleyways and dark corners to screen themselves from view. It made for laborious progress, and Jack chafed at the slow pace. But whenever he felt his temper start to fray, he only had to recall the mob’s hatred to remind him what was at stake.

  ‘Those soldiers . . .’ Aamira broke the silence. The slow pace of their tortuous path gave them enough breath to speak. Jack sensed her need to talk.

  ‘They weren’t soldiers. Not any more.’ He kept his voice low as he corrected her.

  ‘Then what were they? What has happened?’

  He felt the prick of fear as he thought about the sepoys’ actions. He had served with men from the East India Company’s army. He knew a little of the dissatisfaction in their ranks; the rumours of discontent at the new breed of Company officer who no longer bothered to learn anything about their troops. But all soldiers groused and moaned, no matter the colour of their uniform or the tone of their skin. He had thought of it as being no more serious than the daily complaints of the redcoats he had once commanded. He had not understood that it could lead to something as terrible as the events he had witnessed that day.

  ‘Jesus.’ He hissed the blasphemy through gritted teeth as he thought of the consequences.

  ‘What?’

  He was shaking his head, understanding the danger. If one native regiment had mutinied, then perhaps others would follow their lead. A few thousand British officers, soldiers and officials governed a population that outnumbered them by tens of thousands. Something had happened to turn the tables. Like a man whose pocket had been picked by a buzzer, the locals had finally awoken to the fact that they had been robbed, the thin veneer of civilised society torn away to reveal the tawdry truth hidden behind its facade.

  ‘Jack?’ Aamira pulled him to a halt as she heard the sound of movement. They slipped behind a gate, crouching in the shadows. ‘What’s happening?’

  Jack paused, listening for the sound of footsteps. He heard nothing, but still replied in a whisper. ‘The sepoys we saw must have mutinied. If they have acted alone, then there are enough soldiers in the area to restore control.’

  ‘And if there are more?’ He heard the catch in her voice.

  ‘Then the whole damn country is going to fall apart.’

  ‘But it can’t be that bad. We only saw a few soldiers. The rest are just scum, chamars, not people.’

  ‘Chamars? What are they?’

  Aamira’s face twisted with distaste. ‘We call them the untouchables. They are nothing more than bandits. Like the ones you killed. They are always there but usually they dare not come out in daylight. They feed on one another and on anyone foolish enough to come into their part of town. They are bad men.’

  Her explanation made sense. It would account for the improvised clubs. Legs from a charpoy, bamboo lathis and simple planks of wood were not the weapons of organised mutiny. Aamira could be right. If one regiment had mutinied, it might well have inspired the lower classes to riot. Jack felt his fear begin to subside. Perhaps doomsday had not arrived after all.

  But he still had to get them to safety.

  ‘It’s over there.’

  Jack followed the line of Aamira’s pointing finger. The last part of their journey had seemed to take forever. They had been forced into detour after detour, often turning away from their destination to avoid parties of mutinous sepoys or gangs of chamars who were roaming the city searching for loot or for a target to slake their desire for murder. Now, hours later, they could see finally see the entrance to the magazine, the main British arsenal in the district, which was stocked with enough cannon, rifles, muskets, powder and shot to supply an army.

  ‘Bugger,’ Jack cursed. They were too late.

  A great swarm crowded around the two tall crenellated towers that guarded the approach. Some looked to be sepoys, but it was hard to be sure as so many were in a state of undress. A large number wore kurtas and dhotis, and almost all had swords tucked into their belts and an array of carbines, pistols and muskets in their hands. Most of the crowd were yelling and brandishing their weapons whilst the smoke from dozens of nearby fires billowed and twisted around them. It was pandemonium.

  As Jack watched, the mob smashed the last of the lanterns that lit the approach to the armoury. They were roaring in frustrated impotence, and through a gap in the crowd he could see that the main gate to the magazine was firmly barred shut. Behind it, the gaping mouths of two six-pounder cannon pointed threateningly outwards, and he could just make out the presence of at least two men manning them. If the cannon were loaded with canister, they would deter even the most ardent mutineer from coming close. A canister shell was a tin can packed full of musket balls. It turned the cannon into little more than an enormous shotgun, capable of killing dozens with a single shot.

  The sound of hooves echoed loudly, and Jack pulled Aamira out of sight as a body of cavalry trotted past. They were as badly turned out as the sepoys in front of them, and he was beginning to wonder just how many regiments had become caught up in the madness that had taken hold of Delhi.

  He poked his head out of their hiding place in the shadows behind an abandoned bullock cart and risked a glance so that he could watch the arrival of the horsemen. The mutinous cavalry scattered the crowd, even the hottest heads in the mob wise enough to get out of the way of the heavily armed troop, who appeared in no mood to stop.

  He looked across at Aamira. He could see the strain on her face. He could think of only one option, one way of reaching the sanctuary of the armoury. She would not like it, but there was nothing else for it.

  ‘Ready?’

  She looked aghast. ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘For this.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the open.

  ‘You crazy fool!’

  He ignored the gasped insult. He felt the sun catch him the moment he left the shadows. It scorched his skin and for a heartbeat he was blinded by the glare. But there was no time to stop. His boots pounded into the dusty ground, every step appearing to take an age. It was as if he was wading through the heaviest mud rather than a thin layer of dirt. Still he ran on, laboured step by laboured step, the distance seeming to stay the same no matter how much he strained. He could hear Aamira’s gasps as he hauled her behind him, tiny sobs of fear breaking out every few strides.

  Cries of anger and alarm erupted on both sides. Jack had tried to time his break from cover to make the most of the disruption caused by the arrival of the rebel cavalry, b
ut he could already see figures moving to intercept them, even though they had yet to cover half the distance to the magazine.

  ‘Open the gate!’ From somewhere he found the breath to shout the order. He heard the panic in his voice but he did not care. He felt his arm jarred backwards as Aamira stumbled. He hauled her forward mercilessly, ignoring the scream of pain as he pulled her arm half out of its socket in his haste to get her to safety.

  ‘Open the fucking gate!’ he bellowed again, but this time the command was cut off abruptly as a figure leapt at him from his left-hand side. He caught the flash of a sword as a blade was swung hard, but there was no time to react even as he felt the blade whisper through the sleeve of his shirt as he careered past. He had gambled both their lives on a madcap dash to the gate. It was all or nothing.

  ‘Open the gate!’ He screamed the words, pleading for a reaction. He saw the two white faces turn his way, the wide-eyed stares of the gunners as the pair ran at full speed towards the gate they guarded.

  A gate that remained resolutely barred.

  Jack and Aamira careered to a halt in front of the barred gate. Jack was panting, his breath coming in tortured gasps. He thrust Aamira behind him, pushing her hard into the railings, and drew his sword. He turned to face the onrushing horde, sheltering her behind him in one last futile gesture.

  ‘Open the gate!’

  He heard Aamira screaming behind him, her voice shrill. Then the first sepoy was on him and the time for hope died. His gamble had failed.

  A bayonet was thrust hard at his belly. It was just as he had expected; he knew the drill as well as any redcoat. He slashed his talwar across his body, battering the sepoy’s bayonet-tipped musket to one side. He saw the look of horror flash across his enemy’s face as the sepoy realised what had happened, then he stamped forward, thrusting the point of his sword hard into the man’s breast. He twisted his wrist even as he threw his full weight behind the blow. He could feel the suction of the flesh grip the blade, and he rotated the sword, ripping it from the body’s bloody grip.

  The man fell, and Jack immediately stepped backwards, his only thought to hide Aamira for as long as possible. Men came at him in a rush, their swords and bayonets reaching for him from every direction.

  He roared his defiance and battered the blades away. He jabbed the talwar forward, keeping it moving quickly. It forced the nearest men backwards, giving him an opening. Without hesitation, he stepped into the space he had created. The men who had been rushing towards him stumbled back, their easy victory snatched away by the fast-moving blade.

  He backhanded the sword, bringing it around in a glittering arc before burying the edge in a sepoy’s neck. The man fell with a scream, his body blocking more of the advancing bayonets.

  ‘Jack!’

  He barely heard his name through the roar of blood in his ears. It meant nothing. The rage of battle seared through him and he stamped his feet down, careless of the ruined flesh beneath his boots. He smelt the bitter tang of spilt blood and it fired his fury. Again and again he slashed at the men crowding ever closer. He beat aside bayonet after bayonet, gouging huge splinters in the muskets thrust at him. He was bellowing with madness as he fought, the sound little more than a snarl of defiance.

  Another sepoy fell to the ground, his throat snatched away by the tip of Jack’s talwar. His screams were lost in the wild melee, his thrashing body falling to trip more of his fellows even as they backed away from the fiend who would not accept the inevitability of his death.

  ‘Jack, for God’s sake, get down!’

  He heard Aamira screaming at him. Her voice came as if from far away. There was no time to dwell on her command. Three bayonets came at him from his flank, their owners grunting as they thrust hard at the hated firangi who fought with such wild abandon. He swung his sword round, a wild, desperate parry, knocking the bayonets away, keeping himself safe for a moment longer. There was the smallest of openings and he slammed his free hand forward, punching it into the heavily bearded face of one of his attackers. He saw the man stumble away, but more pressed hard behind him, their bayonets already reaching forward. Jack’s bitter defiance was about to come to an end.

  ‘Jack! Get down!’

  This time the order came with a hard push into his spine. He fell to the ground, a bayonet whispering past his face, the anguished roar of a frustrated sepoy the last sound he heard before an enormous explosion roared out over his head.

  Bodies fell all around him. The screams were dreadful as the storm of musket balls released by the single cannon shot tore men to pieces, a great shower of blood and offal raining down like hot mist. His hearing was lost in the violent explosion but he felt strong hands pulling at him and he staggered to his feet. His legs were barely capable of bearing his weight, but he was held up and half carried, half dragged through the iron gate and into the safety of the magazine’s entrance, where he was dumped on to his backside without ceremony. He caught a glimpse of a bearded gunner rushing away to join his mate, who was slamming the gate shut behind them.

  ‘Jack! Jack, are you all right?’

  He could barely make out the words, his battered eardrums still thrumming with the violence of the explosion. Aamira grabbed his arms, pushing him to one side so that he was out of the way of the gunners.

  ‘Jack!’ He saw her mouth form his name, but the sound was deadened and flat. He shook off her grip and let his head hang between his legs, his back pressing into the wall of the magazine’s entrance. He still held his talwar, his hand clenched tightly round the hilt.

  Outside, the mob was running. Dozens of their number lay on the ground in front of the gate. At such close rage, the cannon fire had been brutally effective. The canister shell had exploded as it left the gun’s barrel, spreading a wanton and bloody destruction through the dense crowd. The proximity of so much death made Jack realise just how close he had come to meeting his own. Had any of the sepoys had a loaded musket, he would likely have been gunned down, his body lying now in the tangle of twisted corpses. He shuddered, then dropped his talwar and vomited, his guts heaving with a final spasm of fear. The violent scourge seared through him as he expelled the horror of the desperate fight.

  The wave of nausea left him and he spat hard before he lifted his head and looked up at the girl he had so nearly led to her death.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was thick with phlegm, and he spat again before using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the worst of the snot, blood and vomit that streaked his face.

  Aamira bent down so that she was level with him. She placed a warm hand on either cheek and pushed her own face forward so that it was no more than an inch from his. ‘You are a fool, Jack Lark,’ she said, before kissing him full on the lips.

  ‘Would someone kindly tell me what the devil is going on?’

  Aamira pulled away and Jack looked up to see the face that owned the voice with its peremptory tone. A British officer wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the Bengal Artillery came striding towards them, his jowly face creased into a scowl.

  ‘Have you come from Brigadier Graves? I’ve been asking for help all day!’ Jack eased himself to his feet. He knew he looked dreadful. Blood soaked one sleeve of his once white shirt, whilst the other was smeared with muck from where he had wiped his face clean. His trousers were splattered with gore and filth, and there were several rents and tears in the fabric. He looked like a vagabond.

  ‘Jack Lark.’ He offered his hand as the lieutenant stomped closer.

  The officer looked hard at the hand caked in blood before reaching forward and shaking it with surprising enthusiasm. ‘Lieutenant George Willoughby. I command here.’

  Jack acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod of his head. Willoughby was an undistinguished-looking man. He was short and rather wide, with dark hair slicked into a side parting that was still perfect despite the chaos of the day. A set of twin moustaches bristled under his bulbous nose, which twitched with barely concealed distaste as he
took in Jack’s bedraggled appearance.

  Jack bent and retrieved his fallen sword, thrusting it into its leather scabbard before turning to introduce Aamira.

  Willoughby’s pudgy face creased into a wide grin as he looked across at Jack’s companion. He bowed at the waist before stepping forward to lift her hand and press it to his lips. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Aamira.’ With obvious reluctance he released her hand and turned his attention back to Jack. ‘So, Mr Lark, I confess I do not think we have met. Are you newly arrived in Delhi?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a civilian. I arrived yesterday.’ Jack was as polite as he could manage, but the introduction hurt. He was a reluctant civilian. In his eyes, a man with neither rank nor station counted for little.

  Willoughby’s brow furrowed. He looked past Jack, studying the scene beyond the gate. ‘You fought like a soldier.’

  Jack said nothing as the British officer contemplated the pair who had arrived so dramatically. Finally Willoughby nodded.

  ‘Now is not the time for questions. Come, let me get you out of harm’s way. Although I fear you may regret your choice of refuge. I do not think anywhere is going to be safe much longer, here least of all.’

  The lieutenant led them into the open space at the centre of the magazine. Jack walked at his side, his eyes roving over the paltry defences. The two men manning the pair of cannon at the armoury’s main entrance seemed to know what they were about, but it would take many more to deal effectively with any determined attack.

  Half a dozen servants stood in a sullen group, shiny new Enfield rifles held reluctantly in their hands. They appeared to have been assembled as some kind of flying squad, held ready to react to any incursion over the walls of the magazine. If that was all that stood between the British and defeat, Jack did not feel confident. As Willoughby approached, the servants flashed angry glares in his direction, muttering to one another in low voices, their discontent clear even to a stranger.