Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  ‘Have to keep an eye on that lot.’ Jack nodded towards the siddha tents.

  ‘Nothing the Sikhs can’t handle, I’m sure,’ Kendrick replied. But he said it quickly, his voice clipped, before walking off to continue inspecting his troops.

  Jack would have to do something soon. There were only five days left.

  He removed Katelin’s necklace and gazed at the intricate markings knotted about the cross. More than three weeks ago he’d promised Katelin he would get Elizabeth back. So far, he’d got nowhere.

  He was sitting in the empty room on the third floor, watching William’s billet. He’d been there most of the afternoon and evening, and now the light had faded and the lanterns had been lit along the street. But there was no sign of William. He wasn’t even sure if his friend was in the building.

  He put the cross back around his neck.

  The sound of voices rose from the tavern below. The men had been chanting patriotic songs earlier, but were now more subdued.

  How long would it be before the Rajthanans attacked? He had no doubt they had the superior force, but perhaps they would wait, try to starve the city into submission. He knew how the generals would be thinking. They would want to weaken the enemy with an extended siege, but on the other hand they would be under pressure from their rajas to crush the mutiny as soon as possible.

  Normally it would take days – even weeks – of bombardment to smash through a city’s walls. But rumours were circulating that the Mahasiddha had magic that could create a breach in a matter of hours. Jack could believe it – he’d heard officers talk about powers like that when he was in the army, although he’d never seen them used himself. At any rate, everyone in London was convinced that once the Rajthanan guns began firing, the main assault would soon follow.

  He thought about the pardon, imagined it lying in the top drawer of Jhala’s desk, slowly ageing as the deadline approached. Elizabeth’s freedom was so close, the Raja of Poole’s signature already on the paper, and yet it was beyond his reach.

  Damn Jhala.

  He stood up and paced the floor, still glancing back at the building each time he passed the window. He picked up a loose piece of wood and hurled it against the wall, where it put a dent in the wattle and daub.

  And William – how could he have been mad enough to join the doomed rebellion? Why couldn’t he just have waited out the last years before his retirement?

  Even Elizabeth was to blame. She’d gone and got herself into trouble, all for no reason. He should have been more strict with her when she was growing up, should have kept more of an eye on her since Katelin died, should have gone to see her more often. Maybe then he could have stopped all of this from happening.

  He sat down again and tried to concentrate on watching the house. He rubbed his eyes. Every muscle in his body seemed tight.

  The street below emptied and the voices from the tavern grew quieter.

  He couldn’t stop his mind jumping from memory to memory, and for some reason he recalled the time he and Elizabeth had come across a party of Rajthanans. They’d been walking home from the market when the people and carts in front of them had moved over to the side of the road. An elephant had appeared ahead. Some sort of dignitary sat hidden in the glittering howdah, while a cluster of Rajthanan guards and European servants marched along beside the beast.

  Jack grasped Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her out of the way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Elizabeth was seven at the time and had hardly seen any Rajthanans before.

  ‘Someone important needs to get past.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just someone important.’

  The way was now clear, except for an old man who stood leaning on a staff in the middle of the road.

  ‘Hey, get out of the way,’ someone in the crowd shouted.

  Was the old man having trouble walking? Jack darted back into the road. ‘Do you need help?’

  The old man lifted his chin. ‘I’m fine, thank you very much.’

  ‘You have to move.’

  ‘I’m fine where I am, young man.’

  The boots of the Rajthanan guards crunched on the road.

  Jack grabbed the old man’s arm, but the old man shook him off. ‘You leave me be.’

  ‘Move! Now!’ the leader of the guards shouted.

  Jack backed away, unsure what else he could do. He stood beside Elizabeth and her small hand coiled into his.

  The Rajthanan party came to a halt and the guards’ leader strode up to the old man. ‘Out of the way.’

  The old man, still clinging to his staff, looked up at the guard. ‘Now why should I do that? I can’t walk too well. I reckon you should be getting out of my way.’

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You will move immediately.’

  The old man looked around him. ‘Don’t see why. Last I checked, this was my country. Don’t see why an Englishman should move out of the way for anybody in his own country.’

  The guard nodded slowly, then bunched his hand into a fist and pummelled the old man in the face.

  A gasp rippled through the crowd. The old man crumpled backwards and his staff clattered to the road.

  The guard walked over and kicked the old man in the stomach.

  Elizabeth’s hand tightened around Jack’s fingers. ‘Father—’

  ‘Come with me.’ He had to stop Elizabeth shouting something out, otherwise they might get into trouble themselves. He pulled her towards the back of the crowd. She tried to look over her shoulder at the road, but he turned her face away.

  ‘Father, that man—’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘They were beating him—’

  ‘Keep quiet.’

  He dragged her into a field of carrots. They would have to walk across the countryside for a while and rejoin the road later.

  He noticed that his face was hot and his heart was beating harder than usual. It was terrible to see an old man beaten like that, but the fool hadn’t moved out of the way. What did he expect? You couldn’t speak to your superiors like that and get away with it. You learnt that in the army from the first day you joined.

  ‘Why were they hitting that man?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘It’s just the way of things,’ Jack said.

  ‘But he was old.’

  Jack stopped. ‘Elizabeth, you’re making me very angry now. You just be quiet and forget about it.’

  He strode ahead and she stumbled on clods of earth as she tried to keep up. She said nothing for about five minutes and then burst into tears.

  He bent down. He was feeling calmer now. ‘What’s wrong, little one?’

  ‘My feet are tired.’

  ‘All right, then. You can ride on my back.’

  He turned, still squatting, and she clambered up and held on tight.

  As he stood, he felt a trace of moisture from her tears on the back of his neck.

  They’d never spoken about the incident again. He’d forgotten about it until now.

  Maybe he should have done something to help the old man. But what? He couldn’t fight against so many Rajthanans.

  And what did it matter anyway? Why was he wasting time thinking about these things?

  It was nearly midnight. He was tired and hungry. There was nothing more he could do now – sitting and staring at the darkened building wasn’t achieving anything. If William were indoors he’d be unlikely to leave at this hour.

  Feeling half in a dream, he lit the lantern left behind by the building’s owners and carried it down the dark stairs. On the ground floor, he put out the lantern again, then unbolted the door and stepped out into the covered walkway. Light escaped between the boards that formed the thin wall adjoining the tavern. Inside he could see around ten men, some drinking and talking, some inebriated and sitting with their heads lolling and eyes closed.

  Was Elizabeth going to die? For a moment he was sure she would. He’d been mad to think he could save her.

  Should he give up
and fight for his country instead?

  Is that what Elizabeth would want him to do?

  No, why was he even thinking like this? Elizabeth was going to live. He was going to rescue her.

  Lost in thought, he walked down to the main street and left the walkway without even looking around first. He heard footsteps beside him. He glanced up and his heart leapt. Harold, William’s long-haired comrade, was walking towards him along the side of the road. Their eyes met for a second. Harold frowned and mouthed something silently, revealing the gap where his two front teeth were missing.

  Jack slipped back into the shadow of the walkway. Maybe Harold hadn’t recognised him? He heard the footsteps quicken and he moved back a few paces.

  Harold’s silhouette appeared at the end of the walkway. ‘Hey.’ He sounded drunk. ‘Is that you – what’s-your-name?’

  Jack stalled. He couldn’t think what to do.

  ‘It is you.’ Harold stepped forward. ‘The traitor. I see you there.’

  Jack shot a look at the other end of the walkway. He could run, but then Harold would alert William. Anything could happen then. William might spread the word that he was a traitor, and then he would be a fugitive trapped in the city. He would never get close to William after that.

  He made a split-second decision. He lunged forward, got a hand over Harold’s mouth and held the knife to his throat. Harold was caught off guard and reacted slowly. Jack smelt the ale on his breath.

  Harold struggled and gave a muffled cry, but Jack kept a hand firmly over his mouth.

  Jack’s heart roared in his ears. He saw the men in the tavern sitting mere feet away. If Harold managed to make a sound, they would hear it without a doubt.

  ‘Stay still or I’ll slit your throat,’ Jack hissed.

  But Harold continued struggling. He got his hands up to his face and tried to force Jack’s hand away.

  To Jack, the surroundings went sharp and clear. It was like the start of a battle, when the first shots were fired and you saw the first soldiers go down and suddenly everything was real and everything that had gone before, the waiting, was merely a dream. Jack’s training took over, like dark metal poured into his veins.

  ‘I tell you, I’ll kill you,’ he whispered.

  Harold stopped moving and stood breathing heavily. Jack moved him down to the half-open door. The small foyer beyond was in darkness.

  ‘Inside,’ Jack said. But what then? Could he keep Harold bound and gagged in there?

  Harold took a step up into the house, then tensed and swung himself round. Jack, surprised, slammed into the wall and his head hit the wooden door frame. A puff of darkness filled his eyes for a moment. His forehead throbbed and pain forked across his chest.

  Harold slipped from his grasp and cried out, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet night. Jack threw himself forward with as much force as he could and slammed into Harold’s chest, cutting his cry short.

  Harold toppled back and the two of them rolled into the foyer. Jack sprang on top, got his hand over Harold’s mouth again. Harold bit down and fire coursed through Jack’s arm. Jack flailed with the knife and caught Harold in the side. Harold grunted and Jack felt moisture on his fingers.

  He shifted his grasp and stabbed again, hitting Harold in the stomach. Harold wheezed and gasped, but then seemed to find new strength and fought back more ferociously. He punched upwards and struck Jack on the jaw. Jack’s teeth snapped together and it felt as though needles had been fired into his gums.

  Harold got his mouth free and attempted another cry. Jack pummelled down just in time. He smacked the back of Harold’s head into the stone floor and there was a pop like a china bowl breaking. Harold went silent, stunned.

  Jack lifted the knife.

  Could he do it?

  His hand seemed to hover above Harold for minutes.

  He couldn’t do it.

  But he had to do it. Harold had seen him and would tell everyone he was a traitor.

  Harold’s eyes widened as he became aware of the blade above him. For a moment Jack stared back. Then he slashed down and across. The knife thudded heavily into Harold’s throat, going in deep. Blood spurted everywhere. There was a gargling sound – Jack wasn’t sure if it came from Harold’s mouth or the wound in his neck.

  Jack lifted the knife again. Harold’s eyes gleamed – Jack couldn’t stand it. He wanted them shut. He slashed again. Warm blood hit his face and he tasted salty drops in his mouth.

  Harold lay still, his eyes staring at the ceiling, throat butchered. He wasn’t breathing.

  Jack threw the knife hard against the wall. He wanted to hit something but he held himself back.

  Then he heard a voice outside and went cold. He turned. The door was still ajar and he could see strips of light from the tavern beyond.

  ‘Anyone there?’ came the voice again – the barman.

  He tried to breathe but the air wouldn’t come. With the room spinning, he dragged himself to the door and peered round the corner. Men still sat in the tavern, seemingly unaware of the fight. But the door to the bar further down the walkway was open and two figures now stood outside it.

  Jack slipped back inside. Had they seen him? He fumbled in his pocket for the jatamansi and took a swig.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ one of the men said.

  ‘I heard something, I tell you,’ the barman responded.

  Jack heard the scrape of boots as the men came down the walkway. He eased the door shut, and slowly and silently slipped the bolt across. He was in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from under the door.

  The footsteps came closer.

  ‘Hello?’ the barman said. ‘Anyone there?’

  ‘It’s empty. Let’s go back.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Hold on.’

  The door handle turned, the brass creaking slightly as it moved against the wood. Jack’s heart pounded.

  The barman on the other side pushed at the door. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘I told you, there’s no one.’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  The men retreated and the sound of their footsteps faded.

  Jack breathed out. He leant against the wall, then eased himself down to a sitting position. Black dots danced before him.

  He took another sip of jatamansi and his heartbeat began to slow.

  After a few minutes he crawled across to the body. Harold’s eyes were locked open, two pieces of glass in the dim light. Jack kept seeing that final look of fear on Harold’s face. He’d seen that look many times before – he’d lost count of how many men he’d killed – but this felt different. Was it because it had been so long since he’d been in a fight? He hadn’t so much as raised his hand to someone for nine years. But it wasn’t just that. Harold was an Englishman. Jack had never killed one of his own kind before.

  He reached over and closed Harold’s eyelids. He felt as though he’d crossed some dark threshold.

  ‘God, have mercy on my soul.’

  After an hour in the dark, his mind racing, Jack stood and opened the door slightly. The walkway was in complete darkness, the lights were off in the tavern and everyone had gone home. He saw no sign of life at either end of the walkway.

  He rubbed his face with his hand. What to do? He could leave the body where it was, but he couldn’t lock the door and it would swing open. The barman or someone else would soon notice the corpse.

  He could move the body to another room, but the building was empty, with no hiding places. Anyone would be able to come in at any time and find it.

  He realised that if he left the body anywhere in the building it would be too risky for him to come back. But he didn’t want to give up his vantage point looking across to William’s quarters. Furthermore, the barman had seen him several times and could point him out to the city guard if the body were discovered.

  Then he remembered the boarded-up well in the nearby square. He could dump the body in it. No one would look there. And even if they did, there w
as nothing to draw attention to him, or his hiding place.

  He closed the door and stood in the darkness. Was he thinking clearly? Was he panicking?

  He sat cross-legged on the ground, breathed deeply and said a few Hail Marys. Slowly, things became clearer.

  He knew what to do now. He had to hide the body. There were far too many risks involved in leaving it in the house. The well was the best place he knew – and it wasn’t far.

  He went through to the next room and lit the lantern. When he came back to the foyer he was shocked for a moment by the amount of blood everywhere. The white walls were splattered red and a sticky pool was spreading across the floor. Even worse, the front of his tunic was now stiff with hardening blood. He would have to clean the room, and himself. But first he would have to dispose of the body.

  He extinguished the lantern and opened the door. The way was still clear.

  He went back to the corpse. The face looked sunken, the skin beginning to hang off the bones. He’d often thought the soul didn’t leave the body immediately. It lingered for a while, a silent presence, slowly ebbing away as the face and body collapsed inward.

  For a moment he remembered holding Katelin after the fever had finally taken her, watching her transform from a person to a pallid statue with a likeness that was close to his wife, but not quite her.

  He breathed in, then bent and pulled Harold up by the arms. He tried to get the body over his shoulder, but the weight was too great and he fell forward. The body rolled back on to the ground and the skull struck the stone with a crisp thud. Harold’s eyes sprang open, as if he’d woken up.

  Jack paused, then closed the eyelids again. He picked up Harold’s legs and dragged the body, jolting it down the single step to the walkway. He waited a moment, then continued dragging the body in the direction of the well. Harold’s clothes rustled and scraped on the ground. Jack tried to go as slowly as possible to reduce the noise. He was afraid the tavern door would open at any moment, but nothing happened.

  He reached the end of the walkway, put the legs down and glanced around the corner. The road, busy during the day, was now empty. But lanterns floated above the doorways and the moment he stepped out of the walkway anyone passing by would be able to see him.