Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  A blast ruptured the hill. A wall of air smashed into Jack from behind and threw him forward, his mare slipping away from under him. For a long moment he was flying, then the grass rushed up at him and he landed on his side with a crunch.

  He couldn’t breathe. Pain welled on one side, in his ribs. He smelt sattva and his ears whined from the explosion.

  He gasped for air, took some in. He swallowed and breathed again, then sat up, flinching at the pain.

  Looking around, he felt he’d been plunged into a dream. The previously empty hillside was now engulfed by dust and a fine golden powder that shimmered in the sunlight. Dimly, he could make out men and horses lying in the grass, some moving, some still. He heard shouts and screams.

  What the hell had caused the explosion?

  Brittle musket fire started. Up the slope, figures moved like phantoms in the dust, crouching and darting behind rocks and scrub.

  Another ambush.

  Dabs of flame erupted at each shot and bullets peppered the slope. He was completely exposed as he lay in the grass, and he looked around quickly for cover. Thirty feet above him was a line of rocks. Although they were only waist height, they were his best hope at that moment. He went to crawl towards them, but pain streaked along his side as he moved. He looked down and felt along his tunic, finding no tear in the material or signs of blood. At least he hadn’t been hit, so far as he could tell. He might have broken something, though.

  A bullet hushed past his cheek. He would have to get up to those rocks as quickly as he could.

  He started to crawl again and the pain lanced his side. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. His breath came in jagged clumps, and tremors crossed his chest.

  As he drew closer to the rocks he could see that the surviving cavalrymen were now huddled there in a row, firing blindly up the slope. Grey smoke squirted from their pistols.

  He hauled himself up and sat leaning against a low boulder. The French were spread out to his left, but in the haze he couldn’t tell how many they were. They emptied their firearms in rapid succession and then fiddled about with powder flasks, percussion caps and ramrods. They used the new multi-chambered pistols, which could fire six shots without reloading, as well as carbines.

  The glittering dust from the explosion was drifting away, but was being replaced by clouds of powder smoke. Bullets rattled and screamed on the rocks. Jack’s chest felt pressed by a heavy weight.

  The nearest Frenchman peered over a boulder to fire and then jerked as a shot smacked into his head. He staggered back, grasping at the side of his face, slipped on a clump of grass and rolled downhill a few feet. His body came to a halt and lay still, half hidden by the wreaths of smoke.

  The Frenchman’s pistol lay where it had fallen, less than five feet away from Jack. It gleamed softly and the intricate engravings along the barrel seemed to shift in the grainy light.

  Jack turned, the pain shooting through his side. Finally he could get something to defend himself with. He began to drag himself along the line of rocks.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He jumped slightly, looked behind him and saw Lefevre with a greedy smile on his lips. The Sergeant’s cheeks were flushed and alive with red filigree. He shook his head. ‘You leave that to me, Ros Porc.’

  Jack’s hand crept towards the concealed knife. Lefevre was unarmed and seemed to have lost even his scimitar in the explosion. Jack was breathing hard. He wanted that pistol and he wouldn’t mind having a try at Lefevre either. But he was also weak and he wasn’t sure he could win in a fight – the Frenchman could easily take the knife and use it against him.

  The Sergeant grunted, and Jack let him push past and crawl towards the pistol.

  Lefevre stopped when he reached a gap between the rocks – he would have to cross that gap to get at the firearm. He waited a few seconds, shifted on his haunches, then shot out across the open space. But he stopped suddenly halfway, bent double and slid to the ground. A red welt expanded across the middle of his chest. He put his hand to the wound, then lifted it and stared at the blood on his fingers.

  Jack crawled along until he reached the edge of the gap. Lefevre was clawing at the earth, but didn’t have the strength to drag himself out of the line of fire. He made gasping sounds and when he looked up blood filtered from his mouth, down his chin and into his beard. ‘Ros Porc.’

  Jack glanced around. The closest Frenchmen were fifteen feet away at least and almost concealed by the smoke. Nobody had noticed Lefevre get hit – they were all too busy trying to survive themselves.

  Lefevre’s face seethed as he strained to raise himself further. His eyes locked on Jack. ‘Pull me over there.’ His voice was etched out of granite. ‘Now.’

  Jack clenched his hand into a fist. Why should he risk his life to help Lefevre? A bullet struck the side of the rock near his head, producing a puff of grit. Another two bullets were sucked up by the ground.

  ‘Ros Porc.’

  Then a shot hit the Sergeant in the throat, flinging out a spray of blood. A droplet landed on the back of Jack’s hand. Lefevre slumped to the ground. His chest still moved faintly and with each breath a high-pitched wheeze came from somewhere. His fingers twitched.

  Jack edged back from the opening. He could still see the pistol, but the bullets were hailing down and he couldn’t risk trying to get across to it. He coughed and the pain in his side made him moan. Black spots spun before his eyes. He heard Lefevre groaning like a wounded bull and he even felt sorry for him . . . but only for a moment.

  Then he caught a dark flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something leapt over the boulders and slipped up to the path a few feet above. He raised himself until he could see through the gap in the rocks.

  What on earth?

  Sengar stood on the path, directly in the line of fire, with his scimitar raised in defiance. He held his left hand before him and jerked it in a circular motion. The rebel muskets spat bullets down the slope, but a crackling netting rushed out from Sengar’s outstretched palm and spun about him like strings of fireflies. The bullets sparkled and vanished as they battered the netting, and Sengar remained unharmed.

  Now the Captain balled his hand into a fist, muttered some words, then opened his hand again and raised his palm. Bullets continued to snarl into the netting. The air shivered and wrinkled and formed into a giant globe. With a rumble, the ball burst into flame, rolled and writhed for a moment, then shot up the slope. It tore through the powder smoke and hit the ground with a shattering roar that jolted Jack in the chest. A blast of sattva-tinted wind hit him in the face. Ash and earth and smoke jetted into the sky.

  The Frenchmen gave a cheer. ‘Allah is great!’

  The musket fire eased. Jack thought he could make out shouts from the rebels above, but when he looked up all he could see was the thick black smoke from the explosion.

  Sengar, still surrounded by his glittering mantle, shut his eyes and mouthed a few more words. There was a shrill whistle further up the slope, then a white flash. A droplet of gold fire arced downhill, picking up speed as it descended. Sengar opened his eyes, frowned, appeared confused. He waved his hand quickly in a circle, but it was too late. The droplet slapped into the ground about ten feet from him. The earth burst open and disgorged a fountain of dust and stone. Jack was flung back against the rock and everything went black for a moment.

  He opened his eyes, spat dust from his mouth. He had no idea what had caused the explosion, but the smell of sattva was thick on the hill. He glanced at Lefevre, who now lay silent and still, coated in a patina of dust.

  Musket fire clattered against the rocks, just as hot as before. He looked up again through the opening and was astonished to see Sengar still standing on the path, apparently unharmed. The netting sizzled and encircled the Captain as he held his clenched fist to his forehead, eyes closed in concentration.

  A golden glow appeared uphill and began rushing down.

  What the hell was that?

  Withi
n seconds a bearded Indian man in an orange tunic and turban burst through the smoke, an aura of gold blazing around him. He ran quickly, unbelievably quickly, his feet skimming the uneven ground. He held up his hand, palm open, and droplets of fire sped out towards Sengar.

  The Captain opened his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. He waved his hand in front of him and the netting sped faster. The droplets sparked as they hit the strands. He seemed to fight desperately to maintain his defence, dropping the scimitar and working with both hands to keep the weaving strings moving. The fire droplets thickened and crackled about him. The Indian man plummeted down. More droplets. Then an explosion that lit up the hill. For a second everything was bright and stark and frozen.

  The pulse hit Jack in the chest. He stopped breathing, gasped for air. Blackness. He slid down, the ground embracing him gently.

  9

  Jack was aware of his pain, that was all – a sharp pain on one side of his ribs and a deeper, more general ache in his chest. But he was alive. He took a few breaths to confirm this. Yes, he was definitely alive and his heart was still beating.

  He opened his eyes. William stood over him, scowling and pointing a musket straight at his chest. Jack studied his friend’s face, noting the newer scars and dents cast over the old.

  William’s hand trembled as it rested against the trigger. For the first time in a long while Jack said a Hail Mary in his head.

  Then William broke into a grin, his crooked teeth coming out of hiding. He lowered the musket. ‘Jack Casey. Well, well.’

  Jack coughed and found himself smiling despite everything.

  William crouched down. Jack was sitting against a rock. He was still on the grass-covered slope, but the battle was over and the dust and smoke had cleared. He heard birds chirping in the distance and smelt wild flowers. Behind William, the rebels were busily packing their horses.

  ‘He’s awake, then.’ The man with the long hair and his arm in a sling appeared beside William and leered at Jack. His two front teeth were missing. ‘Shall I finish him off, then, sir?’

  William shook his head. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  The long-haired man squinted at Jack for a moment, then looked back at William. He nodded slowly and walked off to join the others.

  ‘Don’t mind Harold,’ William said. ‘Just a keen young lad.’

  Jack thought about the knife, but could no longer feel it stuck in his hose. He tried to sit up straight, but the pain was sharp in his side and he grimaced.

  ‘Easy there.’ William grinned. ‘Getting a bit old for this, aren’t you?’

  Jack snorted. ‘Could say the same about you.’

  William chuckled and rubbed his shaven head with his large hand. ‘Thought we’d lost you. You were out cold. If it wasn’t for Kanvar there, you’d be dead.’ He nodded towards the Indian man in the orange tunic, who stood aside from the others, gazing out at the green folds of the countryside.

  Now Jack remembered – the man was a siddha and had attacked Sengar. Many questions formed in his head. ‘A Rajthanan? You have a Rajthanan helping you?’

  ‘He’s not a Rajthanan. He’s a Sikh.’

  Jack had heard of the Sikhs, but had never met one. He’d been told they had their own country, separate from Rajthana, and had fought wars against the Rajthanans in the past. But he’d never fully believed that Indians would ever fight against each other.

  ‘The Sikhs are our allies now, since the crusade started,’ William said. ‘They’d like to see us give the Rajthanans a kicking. They’ve sent siddhas to help. Kanvar’s just joined us. Bit of extra firepower.’ William grinned. ‘Bet you lot didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘No.’ Jack couldn’t stop himself marvelling at William’s cunning and audacity. ‘You led us here, into the ambush. You knew we’d never guess you had a siddha.’

  ‘That’s right. I was sure you’d follow my trail. I see you haven’t lost any of your talents.’

  Jack smiled ruefully. ‘Was that the plan all along? Since the first day.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t quite like that. Didn’t know what we were dealing with at first. Didn’t know you were with them for one thing. Thought we’d lost you at the Stour River, but I always have a backup plan – you know that. Gave us a bit of a shock when you showed up at the camp, but we put the plan into action straight away.’

  Jack looked across the slope. There was no sign of the fight, except for two craters that had obliterated a section of the path. ‘What about the others? The French?’

  ‘All dead. No prisoners, you know how it is.’

  ‘The officers too?’

  William nodded.

  ‘There was a young lieutenant—’

  ‘He fought bravely.’

  Jack paused. ‘Good. He was a good officer. Would have made a good captain one day.’

  William made the sign of the cross. ‘May he rest in peace, in that case.’

  ‘So . . . why keep me alive?’

  William raised his eyebrows, then laughed. ‘Jack, I would never . . . Look, you must’ve had your reasons for helping them.’

  William hadn’t changed. He was still as generous and loyal as he was tough. Jack felt a coil of sickness in his stomach when he thought how he’d hunted him. ‘Yes, there is a reason.’

  William eyed him closely. ‘What?’

  Should he tell William? Was there any point in lying now? ‘They’ve got my daughter, Elizabeth. They say she’s a rebel. She’s due to be executed.’

  ‘I see. And if you helped them, they would free her?’

  Jack nodded. A blanket of shame settled over him.

  William looked out over the hill, the sun bright across his craggy features. ‘You were in a tough spot. I understand.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to—’

  William held up his hand. ‘There’s no need to talk about it any more.’

  They both fell silent.

  Jack could see that the rebels had almost finished their packing.

  ‘We’re off to London,’ William said. ‘The war’s changing. The Rajthanans have built up an army at Christchurch. They’re marching on London. It’ll be the decisive battle.’

  Jack nodded, slowly absorbing this information. London – the stronghold of the rebel leader, Sir Gawain, and also of old King John III, who had somehow become caught up in the mutiny.

  ‘When we’re finished at London I’ll bring a force to Poole,’ William said. ‘We’ll get your daughter out.’

  Jack’s voice caught in his throat. ‘They execute her in three and a half weeks.’

  ‘It’s three days’ ride to London. Less than a week’s forced march to Poole. We’ll do it.’

  Was William serious? Was he mad? ‘You can’t win. The Rajthanans are too strong.’

  William’s smile evaporated. ‘We can win. We can definitely win. The Rajthanans don’t have the will to fight in this country.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘They’ll never give up the sattva.’

  ‘You remember Ragusa?’

  Jack hesitated. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Didn’t look like we’d win there, did it? Outnumbered, outgunned. But we had spirit. It was us that won – the English.’

  ‘With Rajthanan guns.’

  ‘With our own blood. You were there. You saw it.’

  ‘It’s different. We had discipline. We had the Rajthanans running things.’

  ‘And we still have discipline. Look at these men.’ William motioned towards the rebels on the slope. ‘They will fight to the death, each and every one of them. And there’s thousands like them all over this country.’

  ‘It’s not enough. The Rajthanans have war avatars, better guns—’

  William drew a dagger and glared at Jack. ‘I tell you, we’ll win.’

  Jack stared back for several long seconds.

  Then William’s expression melted. ‘Look what they’ve made us do. Two old friends. Fighting.’

  Jack looked at the ground. ‘It’s not right.’
>
  ‘You could join us.’

  A dark thought crossed Jack’s mind. If he joined the rebels he might get a chance to . . . to what? Kill William and take his body back to Poole?

  William seemed to be considering this possibility as well. ‘No. They’ve got you by the balls. I can see that.’

  Jack nodded and sighed. He couldn’t bring himself to deny it, and William would never trust him now anyway.

  William called over to Kanvar. The Sikh moved suddenly, a statue come to life. He bounded across the slope like a mountain cat and squatted beside William. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a thin face, black beard and wide, pale eyes.

  ‘Will he be all right now?’ William asked.

  Kanvar leant forward, put his ear to Jack’s chest, listened for a few seconds, then sat back again. He felt along Jack’s side with his hand until Jack flinched from the pain, then he closed his eyes and hummed tunelessly for a few minutes. Jack noticed the scent of sattva building.

  The Sikh was obviously a medical siddha. Jack had never been treated by one of those before. They were usually reserved for officers, if they were available at all, while the men were treated by ordinary doctors.

  Kanvar jerked back slightly, opened his eyes and frowned. He stared at Jack’s chest, as though he could see right through the tunic, even the skin.

  ‘Sattva-fire?’ William asked. He knew about Jack’s accident – he’d been there when it happened.

  ‘Very severe.’ Kanvar met Jack’s eyes. His voice was soft, with a thick accent. ‘It is in your heart.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack said.

  Kanvar shut his eyes again, hummed a little longer, then opened his eyes again and shook his head. ‘Strange.’

  ‘What?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . haven’t seen this . . . have to think.’ Kanvar muttered to himself in an Indian language, as if William and Jack had disappeared.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ William said.

  Kanvar looked up in surprise, as if he’d been interrupted while meditating. ‘Oh. Yes.’ He leapt up, strode to his horse and returned with a small brown vial, which he handed to Jack. ‘This is jatamansi. Take one drop whenever you get an attack. You also have a broken rib. You need to be careful over the next week. You must let it heal.’