‘Sir.’ Jack sank to his knees and namasted deeply.
‘Get up. There’s no need for that. You’ll pay me back when you can.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Get up, Casey.’
Now, Jack’s throat tightened as he remembered this. Jhala was capable of great kindness. And yet he was threatening to kill Elizabeth. It was as though Jhala had completely changed, as though he’d been killed and replaced by an impostor.
Jack’s wound nipped with each breath, his chest felt bruised and every joint in his body ached. He turned on to his back and opened his eyes for a moment, staring up at the lost stars wheeling far above.
Everything had been turned upside down.
7
‘Wake up, Casey,’ Sengar said.
Jack prised apart eyelids clogged with rheum. Sengar stood over him, prodding him in the chest with his boot. He ached all over and was stiff from the slight chill.
‘We leave in half an hour,’ Sengar said. ‘Eat something.’
Jack sat up as Sengar walked away. The sky had clouded overnight and now a fine drizzle veiled the countryside. Grey sunrise filtered through the cloud.
The French had laid out mats in rows and were reciting their prayers, standing, sitting and prostrating themselves in unison. Jack cleared his throat and spat on the ground next to him.
He ate a few dry biscuits, drank some water and tied his hair back in a ponytail. He felt better than he had the night before and was even optimistic for a moment, until he remembered the task before him.
He stamped his feet to shake off his sleepiness and warm himself up, then walked to the edge of the camp. He found the rebels’ tracks again; they were clear in the soft soil, leading away into the mist, a cord connecting him to William.
Kansal came up beside him, moisture beading his turban. ‘Feeling better now?’
Jack nodded, still looking into the distance.
‘What was wrong?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Chest pains? Short of breath?’
Where was this going? ‘Something like that.’
Kansal looked down and nudged a clod of earth around with his boot. ‘Sounds like heart trouble. My father has it.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘He’s all right. Recovering.’
Jack continued to stare straight ahead.
‘Jatamansi,’ Kansal said.
Jack frowned. ‘Sorry, sir?’
Kansal grinned, seemingly pleased to have got Jack’s attention. ‘Jatamansi – it’s medicine, for the heart. It’s what my father takes.’
‘Right. I’ll look for it in Poole.’
‘You do that.’
Kansal stood there for a while longer, clicking his tongue and seeming to search for something else to say. ‘Well, best be getting ready.’ He glanced at Jack as he left.
Jack gave him a nod and forced a smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’ It had been a kind gesture.
Jatamansi. He would try it – if he lived that long.
They rode through the shrouds of drizzle, the hills phantoms all about them. The trail was easy to follow and Jack spurred his horse into a gallop, trying to make up for lost time.
The rebels appeared to have ridden through the night – there was no sign that they had stopped to make camp. Their pace must have quickened as day broke because their horses’ hoof prints became more widely spaced.
Around mid-morning, the tracks led down a wooded slope and out on to the edge of a swift river. The water was brown and high, swelling over the banks and smothering the nearby meadows.
The rebels’ hoof prints followed the river south.
Sengar paused to study a map. ‘The Stour River. There’s a bridge to the south – the rebels may have crossed it.’
The river widened as they rode on, the water swilling far across the fields on the opposite bank. Black cloud flooded the sky from the north and the air chilled. A speck of rain struck Jack in the face, followed by another. Soon the drops came beating down. An earthy smell rose from the ground as it moistened.
Damn.
The rebels’ tracks began to melt into the mud. Rain was the curse of the tracker, destroying markings and covering signs. If it rained hard enough for long enough he would be left with only the sattva trail to follow.
The cavalrymen pulled on overcoats, but Jack had no wet-weather gear and his clothes were soon drenched.
Just as he began to think he’d lost the tracks completely, he noticed something jutting into the river ahead. Staring through the slanting downpour, he made out the remains of a wooden bridge. The central section of the bridge had vanished, leaving only shattered poles and planks. Pieces of wood continued to break free and slip downstream.
A flock of sheep milled about on the bank. An old shepherd stood with them, speaking to a man dressed like a peasant but wearing a surcoat displaying the coat of arms of the Earl of Dorsetshire – Jack recognised the crest of the two leopards from Pentridge Castle.
The shepherd and the Earl’s man were both sodden and speckled with mud. They namasted when they noticed the approaching cavalrymen.
Sengar squinted at the smashed bridge. ‘What happened?’
‘The Ghost,’ the Earl’s man said. ‘Hit us this morning. Blew it to pieces, sir.’
The sheep bleated. They were scrawny beasts and many looked as though they wouldn’t last more than a few days.
‘You were guarding the bridge?’ Sengar asked.
‘Yes, sir. With another.’
‘Where’s he, then?’
‘Took off.’
Sengar sucked on his teeth and his moustache wriggled. ‘So, the Ghost and his men are on the other side?’
‘That’s right. Crossed over and then blew it.’
Sengar looked at the water – it was far too wide and deep to cross. ‘Where’s the next bridge?’
‘Well, now. The river’s flooded. The fords will be washed out. Your best bet is the stone bridge downstream.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Quite a distance, I’m afraid – eight miles.’
‘Rough road that one too,’ the shepherd said.
Sengar jerked out his scimitar and pointed it at the shepherd’s chest. The man gulped and stepped back two paces.
‘You will not speak to me unless I speak to you first,’ Sengar said.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ the shephered replied. ‘I meant no harm.’
‘He meant no harm,’ the guard agreed.
Sengar jammed his scimitar back into the scabbard, glared at the guard, then looked back at his men. ‘We ride to the next bridge. Quickly now.’
They raced along a rough road that cut into the hillside high enough to avoid the floodwater. Rain lashed Jack in the face and he felt each drop strike through his damp, clinging hose.
He brooded. William and the rebels were now well ahead of them and he wondered how long it would take to catch up. William was a wily adversary; it seemed more and more doubtful that they would be able to capture him.
He shot a look at Sengar, who was riding at his side. The Captain’s features were so still they seemed locked in place and his eyes were almost unblinking as they stared at the road ahead. Sengar would never give up the chase, Jack was sure of that. And neither, for that matter, would he. It seemed that he and Sengar were united in this at least.
After around twenty minutes they drew up at a fork in the road. One path twisted away into the hills while the other dipped to follow the river. A simple shrine, little more than a pile of rocks topped by a white stone cross, stood nearby.
Sengar crackled open the map and he and Kansal hunched over it, trying to protect it from the rain.
Sengar pointed at the path leading uphill. ‘That road takes the long way around. We can save time by sticking to the riverbank.’
And so they charged down to the foot of the hill and then along the floor of a valley. Steep, forested scarps stood solemnly to either side.
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The river continued to rise and soon spilt over the road. The horses had to slow to a walk as they splashed through the deepening pools.
‘Ground’s getting tricky, sir,’ Kansal said.
Sengar’s moustache tightened. He led the party off the road and along the grass to the left.
But soon waves slopped across the grass as well. As the water rose, the current grew stronger and the horses struggled through whorls and eddies. One of the creatures skidded and fell to the side, trapping its leg between two rocks. The rider tumbled off unharmed, splashing into the river. But the horse was now stuck and its leg was twisted at such an angle it could only be broken. The animal squealed and trembled, its eyes rolling white with pain.
‘Put it down,’ Sengar said.
One of the French shot the animal in the head. The sound of the pistol rolled across the hills like distant thunder.
‘We’ll go on foot,’ Sengar said.
They all dismounted and led their steeds through the churning flood. The current dragged at Jack’s legs and he slipped at times on the muddy ground. The hiss of the rain merged with the rushing of the water.
Ahead, the river expanded across the entire floor of the valley.
‘Looks deep,’ Kansal said. ‘Should we head back to the road?’
‘No.’ Sengar clenched his jaw. ‘That hill over there.’ He pointed to a slope directly ahead where the valley curved to the west. It was largely free of trees. ‘We’ll go over that.’
They waded over to the hill. The scarp was too steep to ride up, so they continued on foot, hauling the horses along with them. They scrambled over rocks and rises, getting covered in mud.
Jack felt pressure on his chest and the air was thin in his lungs. But he was becoming accustomed to the discomfort. You could get used to anything – he’d learnt that long ago in the army during twenty-four-hour marches on half rations.
The way became even steeper and more broken and he had to pull his horse to keep it moving. Rows of gorse and brambles blocked the way and cut into his skin as he pushed through.
Kansal stopped. Seeing how tired Jack looked, he motioned to Lefevre. ‘Sergeant, take his horse.’
Lefevre walked across the slope. With the rain drooling over his shaven head and his skin grey in the dim light, he looked like some golem formed from the mud. His beard, thick with grease and dirt, had forked into two rough prongs.
‘Out of the way, Ros Porc.’ He grasped the reins of Jack’s mare.
Jack stared back, still holding the reins for a moment before he let go. He didn’t like showing this weakness before the Mohammedan. But at the same time he was exhausted and pleased not to have to drag his horse any longer.
They struggled on until a chalk cliff appeared ahead like a ghostly wall in the whirling rain. As they came closer they could see it would be impossible to climb.
‘What now, sir?’ Kansal asked.
Sengar sucked on his teeth as he squinted up. ‘We’ll go around it.’
The Captain led them to the right, following the bottom of the cliff. Jack slipped at one point, but managed to regain his footing. Sengar, noticing this, ordered a five-minute break. They all huddled beneath an overhang that provided a small degree of cover. Jack leant against the rock with his head bowed, strands of his hair falling over his face and dripping on to his neck. The wind moaned through the fissures in the stone.
They continued following the cliff face until it lowered and then disappeared. Sengar led them on uphill and a few minutes later they reached the summit.
They all stopped dead still.
Below them, on the far side of the hill, the valley opened into a plain at least a mile across . . . all of it covered in floodwater. Scattered trees rose from the murk and a few knolls poked up. But otherwise the ground was totally submerged.
To the east tumbled wooded hills that would be difficult to cross. To the west lay the river. And straight ahead stretched the flooded plain.
‘We can’t get through that, sir,’ Kansal said.
‘I’m aware of that, Lieutenant,’ Sengar replied.
And so they headed back downhill in the direction of the road they’d left hours earlier. Jack stumbled along, his legs so tired they shook and refused to obey him. The wound in his chest throbbed. The men around him were all silent. No doubt they would be thinking, like him, of how far ahead the rebels would now be.
Jack felt a trace of grim satisfaction. William had outwitted Sengar. Half a day ahead and with his tracks being washed into the river, William might well get away. But now Jack’s stomach coiled and he felt light-headed. He couldn’t let William escape. He had to find the trail again. A new resolve spread through him, as though he’d breathed in a djinn. Up until now there had been that vague thought – maybe he could let William get away and still find some other way to save Elizabeth. But there was no other way, and he’d been a fool to entertain this idea – even for a second, even hidden in the back of his mind. He would root the idea out now, destroy it and set his mind firmly on what he had to do.
Sengar’s horse skidded to its knees and then clambered quickly back up again. The Captain thrashed the animal over and over again with his riding crop, letting out small hissing sounds. When he stopped, he glared at Kansal and the cavalrymen – even they appeared shocked at their captain’s actions. Cavalrymen didn’t hit their horses. And siddhas usually showed more restraint.
‘Get on with it.’ Sengar flicked his riding crop, spraying water. ‘Keep going.’
They staggered downhill for another hour, then forced their way through the ever-rising flood. Finally, they reached the road, the crude shrine glowing white and marking the point at which they’d set off.
Now they followed the road to the south-east, giving a wide berth to the countryside they’d just tried to cross. Sengar ordered them into a gallop when the ground was even enough.
Jack’s chest ached so constantly he almost didn’t notice any more.
By late afternoon the path arced back to the west and they splashed across ground marshy from the flooding. They reached the stone bridge, which was high and wide enough to span the swollen river. A hamlet huddled on the far side, its lights winking in the gloom.
Sengar led the way across the bridge, the horses’ hooves clatter ing on the flagstones, and then followed the road back upstream. They passed farmers and shepherds herding their sickly livestock.
The rain eased back to a velvet drizzle. The light faded and night spread ink behind the clouds. Jack shivered in his damp clothes as the temperature dropped.
The road weaved through the dark hills and eventually coiled to the east. Just before ten o’clock the Stour River appeared before them. Water still smothered the bottom of the valley, but the river was more sluggish than before. There was a smudge of moonlight and Jack could just make out the black ruins of the bridge on the far riverbank. On the near side, a few feet upstream, a short stretch of smashed jetty stood just clear of the water.
‘Five-minute break,’ Sengar said. ‘Casey, pick up the trail again.’
Jack climbed down. He felt faint, and black globes circled him. He longed for sleep, but he knew he had to find the trail soon. The longer he delayed, the harder it would be to find it.
He lit a lantern and searched the ground around the jetty. The soil was a sodden pool of mud and he couldn’t make out any trail at all. He worked his way carefully up the road, but all he could see were the recent tracks of his own party. And, of course, the rebels might not even have taken the road. It was more probable they’d struck out across the countryside. But how would he find the start of the trail at night, with most of the markings washed away?
He looked at the boiling, grey and black sky. A netting of moisture fell over his face, a chill crawled up his spine and his head and throat began to throb; he was coming down with something.
He looked back at the cavalrymen, who stood next to their horses and talked quietly or chewed paan. Sengar stood to one si
de, hands on hips. Although Jack couldn’t make out the Captain’s face, he could tell Sengar was watching him closely.
He would have to use his power again. He’d noticed a sattva stream as they’d ridden up the road, and now he walked back, searching for it again. Finally, he passed through an invisible barrier and his skin tingled. He sniffed. It was a strong stream, strong enough for him to sense without even meditating.
He sat under a tree with a canopy wide enough to protect him from the rain, then he shut his eyes. What would happen if he used his power now? Would he survive?
He concentrated on the yantra. Twice he began to fall asleep, but he woke up again straight away.
Although he tried for fifteen minutes, he wasn’t able to prod his mind into the trance. He panted and wiped his running nose on his sleeve. His throat was thick and a tremor built up from his abdomen. The tiredness was knotted deep within his muscles, as though it were a part of him, and always had been.
He was about to give up, when the yantra suddenly went still and he slipped into the trance, almost without meaning to. Distantly, he sensed the pain tear like lightning through his chest. He closed his eyes and sat still. Would this be the end?
No. Although the pain pierced his chest, he hadn’t used his power for more than a day and he’d recovered some of his strength. For the moment he was alive.
He stood and gazed around him. The ground was speckled with the dull glow of dozens of trails, some fresh, some days or even weeks old. He saw the floating flecks left by sheep or goats; the larger, coarser streams of horses; the globular tendrils of human beings.
He put out the lantern and walked, hunched, along the side of the road. He searched the long grass and clumps of heather and gorse, and it wasn’t long before he saw the ghostly tracks of around fifty horses leading north into the darkness.
‘Over here,’ he called to the others, retrieved his horse and led the way up the valley.
He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to stay in the trance – he was weak and fading quickly. Sengar and Kansal glanced at him from time to time and he tried to sit up straight in the saddle.
The valley widened and the trail turned to the north-west, leaving the river behind.
Land of Hope and Glory Page 11
