Jack turned his attention to the one weak point in Barnard’s defences. The walls, buildings and bazaars of Subzi Mandi pressed close to the southern tip of the ridge. They offered perfect cover for the enemy, allowing any attack to be sheltered from the fire coming down from the ridge. Barnard was well aware of the threat and had positioned a strong force on a low hillock that could dominate an approach from Subzi Mandi. Already known as General’s Mound, the position was made up of infantry and three eighteen-pound guns, as well as a cavalry piquet reinforced with two light cannon from the horse artillery. If the enemy tried to attack the ridge from this quarter, they would be made to fight hard for any ground they attempted to capture.
Any troops not on duty in the piquets would find themselves in the camp that had been set up in the ruins of the British cantonment beyond the uppermost reaches of the ridge, some two and half miles from the city. With so few troops available, Barnard would be forced to keep most of his men on duty, allowing only for brief rest periods in the encampment. It was here that Jack thought the general had made his one mistake. The order to fire the cantonments during the initial advance had sent a fine warning to the waiting sepoys, but it had also denied the British troops the use of the airy, well-made barracks and houses. Instead, they were forced to shelter under canvas, a miserable, sweltering existence during the scorching daylight hours. It was a minor error, committed in the heat of the attack, yet it was already felt keenly by every soldier under Barnard’s command.
Jack turned and looked back at the magnificent city. He knew the British commanders would claim that Delhi was now besieged, that the crucial first steps in its relief and subsequent recapture had been taken. But he had only to look at the pitifully small British force to wonder at the sanity of such a judgement. It was like a tiny fly settling on a lion’s flank then declaring that it had bested the king of beasts. The British soldiers had achieved much and had proven themselves capable of defeating even superior numbers of the enemy. But Jack did not know how far such courage could stretch. He wondered if they would ever find themselves inside the city walls; how much fighting it would take to force a way through such immense defences. Despite the heat, he shivered, a foretaste of the struggle to come settling deep in his gut.
The shelling began at first light. The mutineers had positioned their guns in the heavy bastions that dominated the approaches to the city, and now these guns opened fire on the British lines. The first shells smashed into the ridge. Most buried themselves deep, the power of the explosions sending up great fountains of earth. Some landed close enough to the British positions to send the waiting troops scattering as they sought cover from the enemy barrage.
‘Are we besieging the city or are we the damn besieged?’ Hodson snapped the remark as he scanned the enemy with his field glasses.
Jack did not bother to reply, even though it was one of the rare comments from Hodson’s mouth that he happened to agree with. He had accompanied his commander on the short ride from Barnard’s tent in the ruined cantonment up on to the ridge itself. They had dismounted, then walked up one of the dozens of rocky outcrops that littered the ridge, using the elevated position to give them a clear view of the city. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the British soldiers on duty were already feeling its heat. It would be another scorching day, the first in their new positions on the ridge.
‘We should have launched an immediate attack.’ Hodson did not wait to see if Jack would answer his question. ‘Damn Barnard and his caution.’ He lowered his field glasses before thrusting them back into their fine leather holder. ‘Does he not see the need for action? I tell you, this is the time for the old guard to step aside. There is plenty of young blood ready to take whatever steps are necessary to deal with these pandies.’
‘Men like you, sir?’ Jack goaded his commander. He was in a foul mood. The hours he had spent looking at the city the previous night had accentuated his feeling of being alone. His pride at having been accepted back into the army was wearing thin.
Hodson took the question as a compliment. ‘It is a pity that more people do not share your wise sentiments, Jack. Then we might have a chance of winning this damn war.’
Jack could think of nothing more to say. He stood in belligerent silence. He sensed this would be the time when Hodson would bring up the events of the previous day. He did not know how he would react, but he was now sure of one thing. He did not trust his commander. Hodson had disappeared during the cavalry charge at Badli-Ki-Serai, reappearing only when the fighting was done. Neither could Jack forget his display with the wounded rebel soldier. He did not understand why anyone would behave in such a way, creating a public spectacle as proof of his valour. He knew a few things about being a charlatan, and his instincts told him that Hodson was a very different man behind the public facade that he maintained with such care.
‘You fought well yesterday, Jack. I was right behind you when you led the charge against the pandies, so I had every opportunity to see you in action.’ Hodson smiled as he began to speak. ‘You were so damned good, you never left me a target.’
Jack did his best to remain composed as he listened to Hodson’s excuse for his disappearance during the charge. It made no sense. The battle had been a chaotic and swirling melee. There was no way Hodson would have been able to follow him throughout such a fight.
But as much as he wanted to snort his derision and mock Hodson’s words, he forced himself to remain silent. Without Hodson, he had nothing. He could not throw away his opportunity of being back with the army. He wanted to be an officer again and take his place in the force that would quell the rebellion and prevent any more innocents from suffering at the rebels’ hands. His ambition had been sparked, and he would risk his soul if it meant seizing the chance to prove his worth.
‘I owe you an apology then, sir.’ Jack’s voice was clipped. ‘Next time I shall be sure to stand aside.’
Hodson’s eyes narrowed. He looked around, checking that no other officer was in earshot. Before he could speak, however, another thunderous volley crashed into the ridge. The rebel gunners on the walls clearly knew their business, and both officers flinched as the storm of shot and shell smashed into Hindu Rao’s House, the sound setting their nerves on edge.
‘I am not sure that I like your tone, Jack. I have a notion that you think you are a better man than I, that your ability as a soldier somehow outshines my own.’ Hodson spoke in a hoarse, sharp whisper. His pale blue eyes bored into Jack’s. ‘I will not tolerate any insubordination, you understand me?’
Jack bit his tongue. ‘Yes, sir, I understand.’
‘You had better.’ Hodson’s scowl deepened. ‘I may need you for the moment, but that will not always be the case. Even now, men are flocking to my banner. I hear there are three hundred already gathered to join my regiment, and they shall be with us shortly. If you wish to retain your place at my side, I would suggest that you learn to show the correct degree of deference.’
It was all Jack could do to hold back his building anger. He was starting to recognise the manner of the man he had pledged himself to. Hodson would not stand any slur on his character. To him, image was paramount. Anything that was prejudicial to his good name would be ruthlessly stamped out.
He was saved from giving a reply by another barrage of cannon fire. The rebel gunners had begun the process of ejecting the British column from their position outside their city. The besieged were fighting back.
Hodson flashed Jack a final angry stare before he turned to face back towards the cantonment. ‘Ha! Now you will see how well I am regarded.’
Jack’s attention was caught by a commotion below the ridge. A very welcome column of reinforcements had just arrived. He recognised the uniform at once. It had a similar baggy drab-coloured smock to the one he wore himself, but in place of the scarlet sash and pagdi of Hodson’s Horse, the cavalrymen wore indigo turbans, whilst the infantry wore khaki. He knew that these were the famous Corps of Guides that Hodson ha
d once commanded. They enjoyed a fine reputation as hard fighters. They would not accept a fool lightly, and he was immediately curious to see if Hodson’s claim would prove to be well founded.
Hodson was clearly delighted to see his former command. He bounded back to his horse before leaping into the saddle and racing down the ridge towards the newly arrived column. Jack followed at a more dignified pace. He was intrigued to see just how the Guides greeted their commander. He would watch their reaction closely to see if he could discern any trace of the same opinion he had formed.
The leading ranks of cavalry spotted Hodson galloping down the ridge. To Jack’s astonishment, they immediately let lose an enormous cheer and raced towards their former commander. Their excitement was infectious, their shouts of delight summoning still more riders to join them as they thronged around him. Tall, proud Afghans shouted with joy as they reached out to touch him, their faces streaming with tears. Others dismounted and lay face down on the ground, prostrating themselves in the dust before the hooves of Hodson’s horse.
Jack had never seen anything like the reception given to this man whose courage he doubted. Judging by the faces of the officers and soldiers drawn to the commotion, he was not alone. The Guides’ adulation grew even more frantic, and Hodson was swamped, his hand pumped by a succession of men shouting his name. Jack could only sit and watch in wonder.
‘Jack!’
He forgot Hodson in an instant. The feelings of loneliness disappeared in the span of a single heartbeat. The Corps of Guides had arrived at Alipore in time to escort the baggage train to the Delhi ridge. And they had brought Aamira with them.
‘When will there be an assault?’
‘I don’t know. We should have launched one the moment we got here. Now, who knows.’ Jack answered Aamira’s question with a smile on his face. He had requisitioned a tent from the pile that had arrived with the baggage train, the corporal in charge so busy that he was happy to accept even Jack’s scruffy signature on a receipt. They had found a quiet corner near a burnt-out bungalow that was largely screened from the rest of the camp, a modicum of privacy that few would be lucky to find in the growing encampment. They now sat outside their makeshift home, enjoying a rare moment’s peace.
‘Your generals are cautious old men. They are not bold.’ Aamira was critical, her nose wrinkling at the British commanders’ lack of gumption.
‘They believe they cannot afford to take the risk.’ Jack shook his head. In his mind it had been a dreadful decision. The mutineers had kept up a heavy barrage since first light. The city was packed with men and guns, and it maintained an open line of communication to the countryside to the east. That afternoon, the British had heard the fanfare as more rebellious sepoys had marched in, reinforcing the already vast number of enemy soldiers. The men holding the city would not lack any of the resources they would need to withstand the presence of the British. Hodson’s damning question echoed in Jack’s mind. The British were as much besieged as the mutineers in the city. How such a siege would end was anyone’s guess, but he was certain they had missed the best opportunity to strike. He could only hope Barnard would see sense and order a quick assault rather than settle down to a lengthy and uncertain period of occupation.
‘They are like mice.’ Aamira shook her head at the folly of the British generals. ‘You should have told them.’
‘Me!’ Jack laughed at the notion. ‘I am not so sure they would listen to me.’
‘But you cannot delay.’
For the first time he heard the desperation in her voice. He understood her concern. ‘We will attack as soon as we can. Even an old woman like Barnard will see that. We will get to your mother soon.’
‘If she still lives.’
‘Yes, if she lives.’ Jack would not sugar-coat his words. Aamira’s mother was a Christian and had been married to a firangi. It would make her an obvious target for the mob. He suspected he knew her fate, but as honest as he was with Aamira, he still would not voice such a prediction.
Aamira said nothing more. She turned away, her arms hugging her stomach. She did not cry. She did not wail against her fate or berate him for the lack of action. Her emotions remained contained, held in place by the hard outer shell that she had built around herself.
‘Sahib!’ One of Hodson’s men ran toward them, calling for Jack’s attention. ‘Come quick, sahib. We are called for. The enemy are attacking.’
Jack rose quickly to his feet, reaching instinctively for his weapons. The British might claim to have the city under siege but it appeared someone had forgotten to inform the mutineers.
Jack stood over the boy’s body. The young officer could not have been much more than nineteen or perhaps twenty years old. Jack did not know his name. He had glimpsed him once during the latest attack by the rebel soldiers, but it had been no more than a fleeting glimpse in the melee.
The fight had been mercifully short. A battalion-strength group of rebel sepoys had worked their way around the flank of Subzi Mandi, launching an attack on the ridge to the west of Hindu Rao’s House. The newly arrived Guides had been the closest body of formed men, and despite only having been with the army for just under two hours, they had been ordered to repel the attack.
Hodson’s Horse had ridden as support, but they had quickly become engaged themselves. The fight had descended into a chaotic scrimmage, with the rebels attempting to find a way through the British cavalry that had descended upon them.
‘Steady there, old fellow. Lie easy.’ Hodson crouched at the young officer’s side. The two men plainly knew each other. The boy gave his friend a thin-lipped smile, his face waxy and grey, his eyes screwed tight against the agony.
Jack ran his eyes over the wounded man. His blonde hair was tousled and slick with sweat, the curls and ruffles pressed flat against his skull. His khaki field jacket was relatively clean, but the lower half of his body was sheeted with blood. His groin was a mess. Flies swarmed over the pulsating flesh, feasting on the gore as the young man bled out his life, his fellow officers looking on.
‘I say, it does hurt so.’ The boy grimaced. His thin body shuddered and his bony hands balled into fists, a final gesture of resistance against the wounds that would surely kill him in a matter of minutes.
‘I know it hurts, but it won’t be for long, Battye, old fellow. Lie still now. The surgeon is on his way. He’ll soon have you sorted.’ Hodson gave the lie easily, his tone jocular, as if the dying boy was making a fuss over nothing more serious than a split lip.
Jack grunted, sickened to the pit of his stomach. It earned him a glare from Hodson, who reached forward to take his friend’s hand.
‘You fought like a damn Trojan.’ He trotted out the same line he had said to Jack after the fight at Badli-Ki-Serai. ‘Your family will be proud.’
Battye lapped up the praise. ‘Will you tell them, will you tell them I fought well?’ His voice was failing, the words coming out in little more than a whisper.
‘You can tell them yourself! I shall not stand accused of stealing your thunder.’ There was no conviction in Hodson’s reply, even his hopeful tone fading as the young officer slipped away.
Battye gave a shudder. The movement sent another surge of blood from his dreadful wound. The ground around him was already smothered. With an effort he pulled himself up and grabbed at Hodson, his bloodied hands leaving stains all over his commander’s pale uniform jacket.
‘You will tell them, you must.’
The effort of holding himself up was too much, and he slumped back, his head lolling to one side. He fixed Hodson with a final stare, his eyes glazed, the life leaking out of them as quickly as the blood flowed out of his body. He tried to speak one last time, the words barely more than a whisper: ‘Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori.’ Then he gave a final gentle sigh and died.
Jack walked away. He had watched men die before, many no older than Battye. Yet the young officer’s death seemed so pointless. He had died in a skirmish that no one would r
emember, a tawdry affair that had achieved little for either side. Jack could only wonder how many more men would be asked to give their lives while their generals pondered on what their next move should be.
‘God will deliver us victory! We shall no longer tolerate the poor benighted heathen.’
The Reverend John Rotten paused, letting his eyes settle on every man who stood before him. He was clearly warming to his task. The chaplain to the men on the ridge spoke softly, yet every word carried the weight and authority only a man of the church could convey. He looked around at his audience, his face straining with the passion of his delivery. He spoke as if he were in the great pulpit in the cathedral at Canterbury rather than on a cracked and splintered ammunition crate in a sun-bleached outpost of the British Empire.
‘God is jealous and the Lord revengeth and is furious. The Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries and he reserveth his wrath for his enemies.’
Jack stood at the back of the press of officers. He paid little attention to the fire-and-brimstone sermon. He felt no need to know that there was some grand design to his purpose. He was no crusader. He was a soldier, a redcoat. He would do as he was ordered.
‘Delhi stands before us like a modern-day Nineveh. Woe to the bloody city. It is full of lies and robbery; the prey departeth not.’
Jack looked around the group of officers who had arrived to enjoy the impromptu service. He was beginning to recognise many of them. Brigadier Wilson was there, his thin grey face staring intently at the clergyman, his hands clasped firmly across his stomach as if already at prayer. Barnard stood with him, the two most senior officers setting the example to their subordinates. Brigadier Grant, who had commanded the cavalry at Badli-Ki-Serai, looked as bored as Jack felt, but he was doing well to hide it from Brigadier Showers, the officer who had led the 75th in the same battle and who now stood at Grant’s shoulder, clearly hanging on Rotten’s every word.
The Lone Warrior Page 20
