Jack realised he’d clenched his hand as he held it in the stream. He released his grip.
Back in the old days Jhala had always talked about dharma, which defined your role and duty in life. But where was the dharma in forcing a man to hunt down his friend?
Jack heard a footstep on the path behind him. Then another. Someone was coming up the slope, stepping lightly but not making a great effort to be silent. He tensed instinctively. Was it one of his party? He felt the cold metal of a knife beneath his tunic, stuck into his hose. He lifted his hand from the water but didn’t yet reach for the blade.
Glancing downstream, he saw the French cavalrymen watering the horses. Had one of them left the group to shadow him? There should be fifty of them, but he had no time to count.
Then he caught a whiff of soap and perfumed oil. A Rajthanan. You could always tell because of their excessive cleanliness. He studied the sound of the footsteps. Boots crunching on grass and dry earth. A large stride – a tall man. Weight about eleven stone. Walking quickly and confidently. Close now.
‘You want something, Captain Sengar?’ Jack said without turning, still hunched beside the stream.
The footsteps stopped.
‘Get up.’ Sengar spoke in Arabic, the common language of the army.
Jack stayed where he was. ‘Just filling my water skin.’ He took the skin out from the folds of his tunic, then heard a ring as a scimitar was unsheathed.
‘Get up now,’ Sengar said.
Jack returned the skin. He thought about the knife, stood slowly and turned.
Sengar was a few feet away with his scimitar drawn. He sucked on his teeth and his moustache roiled on his top lip. ‘Let’s get something straight. I won’t put up with any insubordination. You understand?’
Jack stared straight back, without blinking or looking away even for a second. ‘I understand . . . sir.’ He said the last word as though he were spitting it. He’d been speaking that way to Sengar all morning, since they’d left Poole. It felt strange talking to an officer like that, but the thought of Elizabeth in the cell was burning in his skull and he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to.
‘No. I don’t think you do understand. Let me explain. As far as I’m concerned you are a piece of shit. The only reason I’m not having you flogged is because I need you at the moment to find Merton.’
‘Flogged? What for?’
Sengar’s face went red. ‘For any bloody reason I want. You think you’re a clever bastard, don’t you? But you’re just a pink European. No better than an animal.’
Jack said nothing.
‘Don’t think you can cross me, Casey. You want to see your daughter alive?’
Jack’s face flushed. He balled his hands into fists. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better listen carefully. From now on you do exactly as I say. If you don’t, I will make absolutely certain your little slut of a daughter hangs. Do you understand?’
Jack ground his teeth. He imagined dodging under the scimitar, getting out the knife and going at Sengar. He wanted to do it, the desire was white hot. ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’
‘Good.’ Sengar whipped the scimitar back into the scabbard. ‘You have five more minutes’ break, then be back at the horses.’
The Captain strode away and Jack pictured getting out the knife and throwing it into his back. He exhaled sharply and tried to calm down.
His head spun. He’d never felt this way towards an officer.
Most Rajthanans were fair, but there were always a few like Sengar who were harsh. The ones straight from Rajthana who didn’t understand Europe were often the worst. But Jack had always coped with this type without reacting. Now, however, whenever Sengar spoke to him all he wanted to do was shove his fist in the Captain’s face.
Below him, the ground sloped down to the road, with the green and yellow fields of Dorsetshire beyond. They were two hours out of Poole, having left early that morning. Jack had said goodbye to the other servants as first light came across the sky. Everyone lined up at the back of the house and the men shook his hand and the women kissed him on the cheek. Edwin gave him a broad grin and promised to look after the grounds while he was away. The only one who didn’t come to see him off was Sarah.
He retied his ponytail and walked back to the horses. A few of the French scowled at him as he approached. They were heavily built men with straggly beards and heads shaved to iron grains of stubble. One of them, who’d been introduced to Jack earlier as Sergeant Lefevre, said in Arabic, ‘Captain give you a good thrashing, Ros Porc?’
The other Frenchmen sniggered. Ros Porc was a term of abuse for the English, referring to the fact that they ate pig meat.
Jack was in no mood to back down before a Mohammedan. ‘At least we English kept the true faith.’
‘You kept a filthy, infidel faith.’ Lefevre spat at the ground. ‘Why follow that pig you call a Pope?’
‘Because we didn’t give in like you cowards.’
Jack had experienced this game of taunt and counter-taunt many times in the army. The French had been Christian once, but they’d abandoned it during the five centuries they’d been ruled by the Moors. It was only in the British Isles that the true faith, the faith of old Europe, had been kept alive.
Lefevre stepped closer. He was at least half a foot taller than Jack and wide at the shoulders. ‘You call me a coward? I’ll enjoy showing you otherwise.’ He switched to halting English. ‘I like kill Englishmen.’ He gave a throaty gargle that must have been a laugh, and the other cavalrymen chuckled along with him.
Jack found his thoughts going to the hidden knife again. The fifty Frenchmen carried pistols and scimitars, and carbines were strapped to their saddles as well. Jack hadn’t been issued with a firearm and Sengar had told him he wouldn’t be getting one.
He stayed calm, shook his head and walked around Lefevre towards his horse. Why get into a fight he couldn’t win? How would that help his daughter?
‘You see,’ Lefevre said after him. ‘You English – cowards, all of you.’
‘Right, men.’ Sengar marched across the slope with a young lieutenant named Kansal. He stepped up on to a rock and surveyed his gathered troops, while Kansal stood to the side on the lower ground. The Lieutenant had a youthful face with bushy, owlish eyebrows, and Jack noted that he had no clan marking on his tunic – no sun, moon or fire insignia that showed he was from a military jati. His family must have purchased his commission at great expense.
‘Over there in those hills are lands controlled by the Earl of Dorsetshire.’ Sengar gestured towards the Dorsetshire Downs rippling in the distance. ‘The rebels have been hiding there. The Earl said he’d weed them out, but so far he’s done nothing, so we’re going to have to do it for him. Now, the Earl’s supposedly been loyal since the start of the mutiny, but we need to go carefully. Things could change at any time. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Yes, Gaulmika,’ the cavalrymen responded in unison, using the Rajthani word for ‘captain’, as was the custom in French regiments.
Jack glanced at the downlands. The Earldom of Dorsetshire was one of the so-called ‘native states’ that dotted England. It was supposedly an independent country, but the Earl ruled there only by the grace of the Rajthanans.
And somewhere within those hills was William. Jack felt a tremor of foreboding. William, his old friend, now a rebel . . .
They rode down the slope and then along the road. Sengar and Kansal went at the head of the party, followed by Sengar’s batman – a large, baby-faced Rajthanan. Jack rode alone a few feet behind, and to the rear came the fifty cavalrymen, their gaze an uncomfortable presence on his back.
The day turned muggy as the sun rose higher behind a skin of cloud. At first they saw carts, which moved to the side of the road to let them pass. But as they approached the downs, the road emptied and the cultivated fields gave way to grassland. The hills ahead were hazy and covered in jade grasses and thickets of trees, and the
numerous slopes folded in on each other, protective arms about a secret.
‘What’s that?’ Kansal pointed to a thick column of smoke rising about a mile away to the west.
Sengar frowned, called a halt and peered through a spyglass. ‘Can’t see. It’s coming from behind a hill. Nothing to do with us, anyway. We’ll carry on. We have to get to Pentridge Castle before night.’
They rode on for a few minutes, and then an Englishman burst out into the road, waving his arms. ‘Sirs! Help!’
Sengar jerked to a halt and drew a pistol. ‘Get out of the way.’
‘Don’t shoot, sir.’ The man backed to the side of the road. ‘We need help. Please.’ He flung himself to the ground, his head bent in supplication. He wore the starched, white uniform of a servant from a major household, but it was marred by streaks of dirt.
Sengar’s moustache elongated. ‘What happened?’
‘The train from Barford, sir.’ The man raised his head. ‘We were attacked. They blew a hole in the engine.’
‘Attacked? Who?’
‘Don’t know, sir. Some reckon it was the Ghost.’
Sengar glanced around the nearby hills, as if the Ghost could be up there watching them at that moment. His horse moved skittishly beneath him.
Jack’s throat went dry. His wound pinched and a fine line of pain wormed its way across his chest. His injury was worsening – the last thing he needed now.
‘We’re all stuck out here in the middle of nowhere,’ the man said. ‘The train’s injured. It won’t move. My master sent me to get help.’
‘Very well,’ Sengar said. ‘We’ll take a look.’
They left the road and cut across the gentle curves of the countryside. The servant rode behind one of the cavalrymen and pointed towards the column of black smoke. ‘There. That’s it.’
They found the train standing motionless on the tracks. The carriages were decorated with wood panelling and brass plaques of Rajthanan gods and goddesses. The engine lay at the far end, hidden by a cloud of smoke and steam. The passengers had all disembarked and now stood in knots about their luggage.
‘Glory to Shiva!’ a woman cried in Rajthani. ‘We’re saved! Help!’
Sengar sawed at his reins to turn his horse. A tight circle of around twenty Rajthanans huddled in the middle of the crowd. Their trunks and cases lay at their feet and they eyed the Europeans milling around them. Four European servants in shining white stood guard just outside the circle, although they appeared unarmed.
‘They want to rob us,’ shrieked the woman, one of the Rajthanans. ‘Help us.’
Jack was sceptical. The Europeans didn’t look as though they were about to attack; for the most part they were ignoring the Rajthanans, although a few did seem to be watching out of curiosity as much as anything.
Sengar paused for a second, then shouted in English, ‘All of you, get back.’
A few of the Europeans began shuffling away, but most just looked up in confusion. Some even moved closer to the Rajthanans, unsure where they were supposed to be moving to.
Sengar drew his pistol and fired in the air. The loud crack made the whole crowd jolt like a whipped horse. A few European women whimpered and covered their ears.
‘Get away from those Rajthanans,’ Sengar shouted. ‘Hurry up.’
The Europeans moved away from the train, pushing and shoving and dragging their sacks and wooden crates. Soon there was a clear space around the besieged Rajthanans.
‘Oh, Captain, thank you.’ The woman wore a yellow sari laced with golden thread, as well as a quilted jacket, which she hugged close to her. ‘I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come. They’re murderers and thieves, all of them.’
Sengar smiled, clearly enjoying himself. ‘No problem at all, my lady. It’s a pleasure to be of service.’ He dismounted and namasted the Rajthanans. ‘Now, tell me what happened.’
‘A band of ruffians,’ the woman said. ‘Pink ruffians.’
‘Yes, about twenty of them,’ a tall Rajthanan man said. ‘They came out of the hills on horseback and threw some sort of bomb at the engine. There was a huge explosion. The train carried on for a few more miles after that, thankfully. I don’t know what would have happened if we’d had to stop right there.’
‘What did they look like, these men?’ Sengar asked.
‘Just filthy Europeans,’ the woman said. ‘Peasants.’
‘I didn’t get a good look at them,’ the man said. ‘But yes, just peasants, that’s all. There was one man with them, though . . . a tall brute with a shaved head. He seemed to be their leader. It looked as though he was shouting at them and ordering them about at any rate.’
Sengar shot a look at Jack, who was still sitting astride his mare.
Jack tried to read Sengar’s expression. Was he supposed to recognise William from that description?
But Sengar said nothing and looked back at the Rajthanans. ‘Do you know where the driver is?’
‘Somewhere up there, I think.’ The Rajthanan man pointed towards the smouldering engine.
‘Right,’ Sengar replied. ‘Wait here a moment.’
Sengar ordered two cavalrymen to remain as guards, then mounted his horse and led the party towards the head of the train. Hundreds of European passengers had spread out along the tracks. Some were wealthy merchants or officials in fur-trimmed cloaks and feathered caps, but most were poorer and would have been crowded into third class with standing room only. People were beginning to give up on the train ever starting again and were drifting away towards the road, dragging heavy sacks and boxes along with them.
Jack caught a waft of sattva and felt a familiar ripple across his skin. The railway line, as was common, followed a strong stream – it meant the avatars could run faster and with less coal.
The smell grew stronger as the dark shape of the engine appeared ahead in the smoke and steam. Two figures stood nearby, indistinct in the haze.
Sengar paused and called out, ‘Where’s the driver?’
One of the figures waved his arm in a broad stroke. ‘Over here.’
Sengar glanced back, then snorted and shook his head.
When Jack looked over his shoulder he saw that the French were several feet behind, muttering and dithering. Sergeant Lefevre peered nervously into the steam and scowled when he noticed Jack watching him. No doubt he believed sattva and avatars were the work of Shaitan.
‘You stay here,’ Sengar said to the French. ‘Kansal, Casey, come with me.’
Sengar, Kansal and Jack dismounted, left their horses with the cavalrymen and walked into the sooty mist. The black, lobster-like train avatar loomed over them, hissing and steaming within the casing of the engine carriage. Its claws, stalks and feelers drooped towards the ground and the only sign of movement was the slight, irregular back and forward motion of a piston on its side.
The driver wore a blue tunic, smeared grey with coal dust and oil, and a partially unravelled turban. He had the dark-olive skin of a Gypsy or half-caste – the only two groups who would work for the railway service. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. ‘It’s terrible, sirs, terrible.’
His colleague, also in railway-service uniform, nodded.
‘She won’t move, can’t move.’ The driver dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Reckon she won’t live much longer.’
‘Where’s the damage?’ Sengar asked.
The driver nodded and took them around to the other side of the avatar.
‘Big engine,’ Kansal said over the sound of the steam. ‘Never seen one that size.’
‘They grow large in England,’ Sengar replied. ‘Strong sattva.’
Jack had often heard this said about England. His homeland apparently had some of the strongest streams of sattva in the world – stronger than the rest of Europe, or even India.
As they crossed the tracks, the avatar gave a deep growl that Jack felt through the soles of his boots. Its legs scratched at the ground and it bucked, lifting the front of th
e engine carriage up a few feet.
Jack and the others flinched, but the driver raised his hands before the beast and called out, ‘Down. Down.’
The creature groaned, then settled back on to the tracks with a crunch. Although the driver was clearly no siddha, he obviously knew the creature well enough to control it.
‘She’s hurt,’ the driver explained. ‘Never done that before.’
Once they reached the other side of the train, the driver stopped and pointed. ‘Look what they done to her. Poor beauty.’
A large hole had been wrenched in the side of the avatar, leaving a mess of twisted and half-melted metal. A black substance, thick as honey, oozed out of the wound, as well as rising streams of smoke. The heat of the engine pressed against Jack’s face. The smell of sattva overpowered him and made his eyes water.
‘Was it the Ghost?’ Sengar asked
‘I wouldn’t know,’ the driver said. ‘No one knows what he looks like.’
‘Who else could it have been?’
‘Well, now that you say it, no one else, I wouldn’t think.’
Sengar’s moustache tightened, then unfurled. He turned to Jack. ‘Could you pick up the trail from where the train was hit?’
Jack blinked. He went to reply, then stopped himself. Now that it came to it, he realised just how much he didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to betray his old friend.
‘Well, can’t you speak?’ Sengar said.
Jack tensed. In his mind he was getting out the knife and running at Sengar. ‘Yes.’ His voice was thick. ‘I could track them from there.’
‘Good.’ Sengar fixed his eyes on Jack for a moment. Then he turned back to the driver. ‘How far away were you when you were attacked?’
‘About ten miles,’ the driver replied. ‘My beauty managed to keep going all the way to here, bless her, getting slower and slower.’
‘Ten miles – that’s in the Earl’s lands.’
‘That’s right, sir. The line crosses the border for a distance.’
Sengar looked at Kansal. ‘Ten miles isn’t far.’
‘We could follow the tracks there now,’ Kansal said.
Land of Hope and Glory Page 6
