The sight that greeted him sickened him to the stomach.
‘Do you call yourself a great swordsman?’
Jack scowled as he heard Hodson taunt the lone rebel soldier. Yet he held his tongue, biting back the desire to call out and order an end to the foul mockery. He had already given Hodson grounds for disciplining him. He could not risk another such outburst.
Hodson was parading his horse around the mutineer, circling just out of the reach of the man’s sword. The action was clearly delighting the British officer, who laughed as the rebel stumbled. His men watched in silence, their blood-splattered faces betraying nothing.
Jack forced his horse to the very front of the crowd, letting Hodson see that he had arrived, hoping that his presence would somehow end the gratuitous display.
Yet if anything, his appearance seemed to goad Hodson to greater efforts. The rebel sepoy darted forward, jabbing his sword in a fast lunge aimed at the British officer’s horse. Hodson simply spurred away from the blow, his face creasing with laughter as he evaded the attack with ease.
‘What do you call that stroke? I do not recall its place in the manual!’ he cackled.
For the first time Jack noticed that Hodson’s naked blade was clean and devoid of bloodstains. Where Jack’s sword arm was bloodied to the elbow, Hodson’s uniform was pristine. Clearly the British officer had been elsewhere when the fight had been joined. He might have only appeared now that it was over, but he was canny enough to create a display that would live long in the memory of those who witnessed it. One that would enhance his reputation and prove him to be the brave swordsman he claimed to be.
The sepoy was not without courage. He threw himself at Hodson again, his fast footwork getting him close to the mounted officer. Hodson slashed down with his sword, beating away the series of blows before lashing out with his boot, kicking the rebel hard in the chest and sending him sprawling to the ground.
‘Why, try that again!’ Hodson’s voice was tight now, some of the humour leaving it as he was forced to fight to protect himself.
Jack tried to force away the urge to intervene. He felt the shame of standing by, of watching another man put to the sword in a fight that was far from fair. The rebel staggered to his feet, breathing heavily. Jack could see the pain etched into his face, and for the first time he noticed the bloody patch under the man’s armpit. Hodson had clearly selected his victim with care.
‘Ha!’ Hodson jeered once, then circled closer. The rebel was slow and his parry was laboured. Hodson rose in his stirrups, his sword slashing at the rebel’s chest and drawing a line across his front before he spurred on, leaving the man panting, his white shirt bloodied and torn.
‘Good try, old fellow, but you really must do better!’ he laughed, throwing his head back as he circled round once more.
Jack had seen enough.
He jerked his spurs back and his horse lurched into motion, its hooves scrabbling for purchase on the stony ground before it charged forward. Jack felt the beast quicken its pace and he braced his battered arm, readying it for the inevitable impact.
The rebel saw him coming. For a heartbeat he looked into Jack’s eyes. There was just time enough for Jack to see the shame reflected there before his sword took the man in the throat.
The weapon was torn from his grip, the force of the impact too much for his aching hand to withstand. He hauled his horse to a stop, his breath rasping in his lungs from the sudden exertion.
‘Badly done!’ Hodson roared. ‘You stole my fox!’
Jack said nothing. He gritted his teeth and turned his horse to face his commander, too sickened to fear any backlash.
Hodson opened his mouth, a flush spreading up from his throat to colour his pale face. His eyes widened as he took in the state of Jack’s uniform and the angry words died away.
Jack looked hard into Hodson’s eyes as they met his own. The two men glared at each other before Hodson glanced away.
‘Get your sword, Lieutenant.’ Hodson’s voice was cold. He did not look at Jack again. ‘I doubt you will be able to find another. I, for one, have none left to give you.’
It was still early, not yet even eight o’clock, but already the sun beat down with a fierce intensity. The rest of the British infantry had advanced into the rebel position, their ranks formed and ordered as they followed the path along which the 75th had charged.
Large numbers of the broken rebel force had made good their escape. There were simply too many of them; even three full squadrons of lancers were unable to kill every enemy soldier that ran past them. The remnants of the battered and bloodied rebel army streamed back towards Delhi, their muskets and cannon abandoned, their defeat complete.
Jack had left the men of Hodson’s Horse to the care of their non-commissioned officers and had ridden towards the gaggle of staff officers who arrived close behind the leading ranks of infantry. He did not know where else to go. He could not bring himself to find Hodson. Their fledgling relationship would be stained by the episode on the battlefield. Jack could not understand his commander’s actions, nor did he want to. The callow display had shown Hodson’s skill, his speed with the sword in the one-sided battle obvious to all who had watched. Yet it had shown a type of character that Jack could not recall ever having encountered before.
As he approached, he heard raised voices coming from the crowd of officers. Many were looking at the fallen, pointing here and there as they recognised men lying amongst the rebel dead. This was no foreign enemy. They were men who had served side by side with the British for years; brothers-in-arms and comrades, not some faceless foe. Most of the officers saw men they had known lying spread-eagled in the morning sun, the familiar faces now frozen in death.
The advancing infantry pressed on past the mutineers’ line, the beat of the drum propelling them over ground shattered by the British gunners and now smothered with the bodies of the dead. They were hot, tired and thirsty. They had marched hard and fought a battle. Yet they would not be left to rest for long. Jack saw the huddle of staff officers break up as the field officers returned to their units. Messengers hurried in their wake, General Barnard quick to dispatch a flurry of orders.
Jack beckoned over an ensign wearing the dull grey uniform of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers. The young man’s face was flushed with exertion, the sweat running freely from his temples. Jack saw the scrap of paper held tightly in his hand, but the precious message would have to wait a moment longer.
‘What’s happening?’ He snapped the question as soon as the younger officer rode close enough.
The ensign swallowed hard as he took in Jack’s bloodied appearance. ‘The men are to take half an hour’s rest. Then we shall advance.’
He made to turn away, but Jack was close enough to reach across and take a firm grip on his bridle, holding him in place. ‘Where are we going?’
The youngster’s face twisted in vexation. ‘Why, to Delhi, sir. We are to attack immediately.’
Jack let go of the bridle and waved the messenger away. General Barnard appeared to know what he was about. His men were tired, yet the fight had been quick and largely one-sided. There was no need to delay. It would be a tough day, the sun as much of an enemy as the mutinous sepoys, but Delhi was just six miles away. It would take one hard march, one more effort, and then the Delhi Field Force could strike at the very heart of the mutiny.
Jack found Hodson a short way down the Grand Trunk Road. He and his small troop were waiting at a fork in the road for the arrival of the head of the British column before they rode on. As ever, the irregular cavalry were riding ahead of the infantry, scouting the way and making sure no enemy force waited to block Barnard’s progress towards Delhi.
The short respite Barnard had given his men had passed rapidly. Jack had spent the time removing the worst of the blood and gore from both his sword and his uniform. Both would require more work, but at least he no longer looked like a butcher on his way home from the slaughterhouse.
‘Sir
.’ He rode up and halted a respectful distance from his commander. To his surprise, Hodson’s face split into a wide smile at the return of his subordinate.
‘Welcome, Jack! I am delighted to see you safe.’ He spurred forward. ‘Let me shake you by the hand, old fellow. You fought like a damn Trojan.’
Jack could think of nothing to say. It was only as Hodson came close that he caught the coldness in the man’s eyes. The greeting was a sham, nothing but a public display for anyone bothering to watch the meeting of the two officers.
‘We have a warm day ahead.’ Hodson released Jack’s hand but stayed close by. ‘The column is to divide here. Brigadier Wilson will take one column towards Subzi Mandi, which lies at the bottom of the ridge that overlooks the city. The second column will march to the cantonment and on to the ridge’s left flank.’
‘Where is the enemy?’ Jack tried to force warmth he did not feel into his voice. He could only presume that Hodson preferred to overlook his intervention with the rebel soldier. He did not think the matter was forgotten, or forgiven, but for the moment it appeared it was to be ignored. It was a very British response and one that he welcomed. He needed his place with Hodson. Without it he had nothing.
‘The bulk of the rebel forces are positioned strongly on the ridge just outside the city.’ Hodson placed his tinted eyeglasses on his face. ‘At least they were when I was there the other day. It is the obvious place and they would be fools to ignore it. After all, this road is the only way a heavy column can hope to approach the city.’
Jack was trying to picture the position Hodson described. He had seen the ridge when he had first arrived in Delhi. It pointed away to the north-east from above the north-west corner of the city like a gnarled and ancient finger. The northernmost end was protected by the Jumna river, whose fast-moving current and deep waters were only crossable at the bridges and fords far from the city’s walls, or over the bridge of boats built by British engineers that led to the Red Fort. The southern tip of the ridge was close to the city and rose some sixty feet above the walls. It came to an end in the confusing maze of streets in the district of Subzi Mandi, with its network of bazaars, buildings and garden walls.
The ridge was a formidable defensive position, and if Hodson was correct, the enemy planned to mount their first defence of Delhi on its heights. If the British infantry won through, they could look to take the fight to the city itself.
The British column advanced through the wreckage of the cantonment. It was still not yet noon but already the sun was cooking the advancing infantrymen, even though they advanced in just their shirtsleeves. The tired men could do little to protect themselves and were forced to march on, ignoring the discomfort and the exhaustion as best they could.
Jack rode with Hodson on the left of Barnard’s column, which was advancing to attack the northern end of the ridge. With the enemy position now in plain sight, there was no need for the cavalry to screen the advance, and the general had ordered them to protect the flank that faced towards the open countryside away to the north.
Hodson had fallen silent as they came close to the ridge. He had been happy to talk during the ride from Badli-Ki-Serai. Jack had been forced to listen to an exacting description of the enemy’s disposition on the ridge, followed by how Hodson would conduct an attack were he in charge. Jack’s commander was a talkative soul, especially when he could take centre stage and just so long as the enemy was far away.
The cantonment they now rode through had been utterly destroyed. Everywhere Jack looked he saw the evidence of the wanton destruction inflicted by the rebels. Costly furniture was scattered in every direction, not one piece intact, the splintered remains strewn across the once neat footpaths that criss-crossed the cantonment. All manner of household goods lay amidst the ruins: tumblers, plates, books, pictures and clothing, all thrown out of the ransacked bungalows that had once housed British officers and the senior officials of the East India Company.
Jack bent low in the saddle and peered through the window of the nearest bungalow as his men picked their way through the debris. The grass-screen tattie that had once shaded the interior hung on a single hinge so that it moved back and forth in the slight breeze, the splintered wood scratching each time it caught on its wooden frame. The room it had once cooled bore similar signs of destruction. A table had been hacked apart with hatchets, and a fine sideboard had been ripped open and emptied of its contents, which now littered the floor. The far wall was smeared black with what Jack could only think had to be blood, and he smelt the sour tang of brandy before spotting a fine tantalus lying amidst the wreckage, its crystal decanters shattered into a thousand pieces.
In one corner he noticed a bundle of singed clothing. Whoever had tried to light the pile had clearly failed, and had only succeeded in scorching the once fine cloth. He gritted his teeth and turned away, the sight saddening him. It was only as he moved his gaze from the room that he realised the pile of garments was in fact a corpse, the broken limbs bent to such impossible angles that at first glance he had been unable to discern the body hidden beneath the half-burnt clothes.
He pushed the image from his mind. The unfortunate soul was far beyond help. The time for caring for the dead would come later, and only if those still living were able to batter aside the enemy defences and find a way into the city, or else secure a position from where they could begin the long and dangerous process of mounting a siege.
He did not need his battered old telescope to see the formidable defences that waited for them. The enemy had chosen a fearsome defensive position, the ridge a ready-made rampart.
Hodson had told Jack there were three strong points on the ridge. The first, at its southern tip, close to the suburb of Subzi Mandi, was the fine stone building known as Hindu Rao’s House. It had once been the country residence of a Maratha chief. The enemy had turned it into a veritable fortress, packing it full with men armed with muskets. One hundred and eighty yards to the north of the house sat an observatory, with the ruins of an ancient Pathan mosque to its left. Further on was the Flagstaff Tower, the final bastion on the ridge and the first position that Barnard’s column would have to take.
The rebel guns were positioned along the ridge, facing to the west and ready to fire on the advancing columns. Enemy infantry held each of the strong points, the thick walls protecting them from the British gunners. If the mutineers were determined and stood firm, they would be hard to shift. For the first time, Jack began to have a nagging doubt in the pit of his stomach. The British were heavily outnumbered and outgunned. Even if they were successful in forcing their way on to the ridge, they would still have to face another fight if they were to take the city. He looked at the pitifully small column. With half his men gone with Brigadier Wilson, Barnard was left with just two battalions and one wing that comprised Graves’s brigade.
The sharp call of the bugles forced the doubts from his mind. Barnard was beginning the attack, and the first of his infantry battalions were redeploying from the marching column into line as they prepared to advance on the enemy position.
The rebel gunners had waited for this moment. A battery of six guns was lined up to the side of the Flagstaff Tower. As Barnard’s column approached, the enemy opened fire.
‘Form skirmish line!’
Jack watched in approval as the leading regiment, the 60th Rifles, broke ranks and moved into the looser formation. With wider spacings between the files, the riflemen would offer a less tempting target for the rebel gunners. The British soldiers had developed a healthy respect for the mutineers’ skills after their display at Badli-Ki-Serai.
Yet for the moment, the rebel gunners’ skills seemed to have deserted them. The first volley went wide, the heavy roundshot missing the advancing British infantry and hitting a cemetery to their right flank, the only damage caused to a number of tombstones that were smashed by the fast-moving shot.
‘Fire the houses!’
The watching cavalry heard the order given to the men s
till in the column. Within minutes, huge plumes of flame and smoke billowed into the sky, the dry thatch roofs atop the buildings in the abandoned cantonment catching light with ease. The British were announcing their arrival with fire, the huge burning clouds a warning of the retribution the mutineers faced in the hours and days to come.
Hodson stared into the distance, his attention riveted on the line of rebel artillery. He said nothing. Jack had no intention of offering conversation; he too concentrated his attention on the sight of the enemy gunners rushing round their cannon as they raced to reload. They would not be given the chance. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Hodson flinch as their own guns opened fire. As soon as the infantry had deployed, the gunners had hauled their guns into position, and now they matched the enemy barrage with one of their own. This time the British artillery officers were able to demonstrate a superior skill, their first volley crashing around the ears of the rebel gunners. Jack saw one enemy cannon torn from its carriage, the heavy barrel flung to one side. At least half a dozen gunners were thrown to the ground, the accurate storm of roundshot exacting a dreadful toll on the men attempting to turn back the British assault.
It was too much for the enemy artillerymen. Even though five of their guns still remained whole, they ran, abandoning their post and their comrades ensconced in the tower.
‘Ha! Just as I thought. These damn pandies won’t stand.’ Hodson turned to face Jack, his eyes glimmering with passion. ‘Did I not say that they would not stand!’
‘You were right, sir.’ Jack was still fighting his dislike for his officer, and he made the admission through gritted teeth.
Hodson nodded. ‘You will find that often to be the case, old fellow.’ There was no trace of humour or false modesty in the remark.
Jack said nothing more. He simply clenched his jaw as the merciless British gunners threw out a second volley, their heavy roundshot striking down the fleeing gunners even as they ran for the rear.
The Lone Warrior Page 18
