Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Jack couldn’t help a bitter smile. How did William do it? How did he stay optimistic despite everything? ‘It’s finished. You can’t win now.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘You know it as well as I do.’

  William shook his head. ‘We can still win. The men will fight to the death to defend their King. We just need to push these bastards back from the Tower and then they’ll lose heart.’ He looked down for a second, then looked up again and fixed his gaze on Jack. ‘And if we don’t win, we’ll die honourably. Our deaths will be a message to our children and grandchildren to continue the fight, until one day we’re free.’

  Jack swallowed. William always spoke well. ‘If you give yourself up, I can take you back alive.’ It was worth a try.

  William laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t want to shoot you.’

  ‘Then don’t.’ William took a few paces forward. The knife was still in his hand and the blade had a dull sheen in the light from the windows. ‘It’s not too late. You can still join us.’

  Jack shook his head and rested his finger on the trigger.

  ‘You’re really still with the Rajthanans?’ William asked. ‘You’ve seen what they’ve done to this city.’

  ‘No. I’m not with them.’

  ‘Then join us.’

  Jack remembered the burnt farms in Hampshire, Charles dead, the old man being beaten on the road back from the market. Elizabeth would want him to fight for England. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Thought I knew you, Jack.’ There was a slight tremor in William’s voice. ‘Go on, then. Shoot me.’

  Jack clenched his jaw. He blinked. He hated the Rajthanans for what they were making him do. Even now they had power over him. Why should he do what they told him to?

  But then he thought of Elizabeth. He was going to do it . . .

  William snorted. ‘Thought not.’ His features softened, the anger draining away. In the grey light, with the falling rain behind him, he appeared lost for a moment.

  Jack noticed how old his friend looked, his face criss-crossed by lines and furrows.

  ‘I’m going down there.’ William gestured to a set of stairs at the far end of the hall. ‘I’m going to keep on fighting. You follow me if you want to.’ He turned and began to walk away.

  ‘No.’ Jack’s voice was thick. He took a few paces to the side, still with his musket trained on William, until he was blocking the path to the stairs. He kicked away a musket lying nearby.

  ‘Out of the way, Jack.’

  ‘I can’t let you go.’ And yet he couldn’t bring himself to shoot his friend – not just like that, after all the years they’d spent together, after William had saved his life at Ragusa. Not really understanding why, he tossed the musket aside and it clattered to the floor. He took out the knife. If he was going to fight William, then at least he would do it fairly.

  William’s forehead creased. ‘There’s no need for this, old friend.’

  ‘I’m taking you with me to Poole. One way or another.’

  William tilted his head back. His eyes were two dark caves as he slowly nodded. ‘Very well. As you wish.’

  William bent his knees and stood poised as if to begin a wrestling match. Jack did the same and they began to circle each other. The sound of the battle still rattled and pounded outside, but it seemed far away, as though the two of them were enclosed in a bubble. Jack recalled the sound of the men cheering in the wrestling tent, back when he was in the regiment. He and William had spent endless hours in that tent. He’d even fought William a few times – although his friend had always won easily. William was a strong man and the years didn’t seem to have weakened him at all. Jack felt only too aware of the ache in his chest, the shallowness of his breath. He couldn’t hope to win in a fight with William. Why was he doing this? Why not just pick up the musket?

  They’d been prowling around each other for almost half a minute when William broke the spell and lunged with his knife-free hand, trying to grasp Jack’s arm. Jack danced aside and avoided the attack – at least his injury hadn’t slowed his reflexes.

  ‘Come on,’ William said. ‘If you want to fight, then fight. Otherwise let me get on with killing Rajthanans.’

  Jack didn’t reply. If William was trying to distract and unnerve him, it wasn’t going to work.

  William lashed out again, but this time, as Jack tried to dodge to the side, his friend lunged in the opposite direction with the knife. Jack had to lean sideways to avoid the blade, and in so doing ran into William’s arm. The blow hit him in the chest and he staggered back – not injured, just startled.

  William flicked his arm around, the blade flashing straight towards Jack’s head. Jack ducked, but he needn’t have. William stopped himself from following through, the knife hovering inches from where Jack’s face would have been.

  Jack slipped under William’s arm and was back upright in a second. A film of sweat covered his face and neck.

  ‘You never were a great wrestler,’ William said. ‘Step aside. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  Jack struggled to get his breath back. ‘Can’t do that.’

  ‘You don’t look too well. Sure you want to carry on?’

  Jack scowled. He was letting William get to him – wrestling was about the mind as well as the body.

  He tensed his leg muscles, then sprang forward, jabbing with the knife. It was a desperate move, and he doubted it would work, but he needed to stop William talking.

  William, as Jack had expected, stepped back in plenty of time and the knife prodded the air well short. But William kicked up, a move Jack hadn’t anticipated. William’s boot struck Jack hard in the arm and he almost let go of the knife.

  As Jack staggered back, William leapt forward and swung his fist. The blow landed square on Jack’s nose. There was a flash and a ringing sound and Jack felt pain spread like hot liquid across his face. He gasped and fell on to his backside.

  William towered over him, massaging his knuckles. He’d hit Jack with his knife hand – he could have used the blade if he’d wanted to, and then that would have been the end.

  William smiled gently. ‘Give up, Jack. There’s no point in this.’

  But an image of Elizabeth in the cell flickered in Jack’s mind and his nerves screamed and screamed. He jumped up and flailed wildly at William with his knife.

  William was surprised and fell back awkwardly. Jack gave a guttural cry. His mind was empty. He swung the knife in a loose arc. But William saw the blow coming in plenty of time, moved to the side and grabbed Jack’s arm as it swished past. William yanked at the arm so that Jack was flung forward and dashed to the ground. The breath was punched out of Jack’s lungs and blackness threatened him. William grasped the arm tightly and wrenched it up behind Jack’s back. Now Jack was lying face down on the floor with his knife hand in a painful grip.

  ‘Drop the knife,’ William shouted. ‘I don’t want to break your arm.’

  But Jack still clung to the blade and kicked and struggled with all of his remaining strength.

  There was a loud crack. William suddenly released his grip and staggered away. Jack flipped over, still lying on the ground. William clutched his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his fingers. At the end of the hall stood a silver-turbaned Rajthanan lieutenant and five Andalusian soldiers. The soldiers had their muskets trained on William, while the officer held a pistol that drooled smoke.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ Jack shouted. But his words were drowned out by the tearing, blistering sound of five muskets and a pistol firing.

  William jolted, stumbled, tried to stand, slipped to his knees, got up again. It was as though he were balancing on the deck of a ship in a wild sea. Finally, he fell back against the wall, beneath the line of windows. Bullet wounds peppered his chest and abdomen, but he was still alive. He glared at his enemies, then turned his head and looked at Jack, one eye half closed. Jack stared back. There was a light behind his friend’s eyes for a moment, then it went out.
William’s body relaxed as he took his final, long, sighing breath.

  ‘You were lucky,’ the lieutenant said in Arabic. ‘That bastard would have done you in if we hadn’t got here.’

  Jack groaned as he tried to move. It felt as though all his ribs had been cracked and a metal peg had been driven into his face.

  Bodies littered the slope outside the White Tower. The dead lay contorted where they’d fallen. Those still living sobbed and moaned and writhed like crushed beetles. The rain had eased to a drizzle and fell tenderly on the broken men.

  Jack stopped for a moment. The stretcher-bearers had arrived and were carrying away the wounded, but there were so many injured he could tell that most were destined to lie there for hours and eventually die.

  He looked back at the White Tower. It stood at the top of the incline, pallid against the dark sky, only slightly damaged by the fighting. The King was still inside, Jack had been told, being held for his own protection now that he’d been ‘freed’ from the captivity of the rebels. Sir Gawain, apparently, had been taken alive and would be tried within a matter of days. No doubt he would soon be hanging from the gallows.

  A gust of wind blew raindrops into Jack’s face. Elizabeth was due to be executed in just over two days.

  He grasped the stretcher on to which he’d tied William’s body, wrapped in a sheet of sackcloth, and staggered forward as quickly as he could. The stretcher bounced over the mud and the twisted bodies, the tortured faces, blank eyes, gleaming teeth, clawing hands.

  No one paid him any attention. All those who’d survived the battle were either wounded or exhausted. A private dragging a corpse wasn’t anything notable.

  He reached the smashed remains of the outer wall and hauled the stretcher up the rubble. At the summit he stopped to regain his breath. Below him was the slope he’d run up an hour earlier. It was covered in corpses, limbs, lumps of flesh, blood, all glistening in the rain. Beyond this was the ruddy moat with the ramps still lying across it, then the square where the bodies formed a carpet that almost completely covered the cobblestones. And on the far side of the square lay buildings reduced to hunched ruins by artillery fire.

  The spire of St Paul’s rose above the roofs of London, the pinnacle invisible amongst the drifts of rain. At least the cathedral had survived.

  He took a deep breath. He would have to leave immediately if he were to have any chance of getting to Poole in time.

  As he turned into a narrow lane, Jack spied a horse, a white charger, wandering without a rider. He wasted no time in grasping the reins and then heaving William’s corpse, still wrapped in sackcloth, across the animal’s back. He mounted and set off in the direction of the New Gate.

  Thunder rolled across London and dark cloud toiled above, although the rain had stopped for the time being.

  After around ten minutes he realised he recognised the streets and squares about him – he was near the house where Charles had died, and where Saleem was hopefully still hiding. He was in a hurry, but he could spare a few minutes to check on Saleem. He owed the lad that much.

  He sawed at the reins and the horse cantered down a side street. Soon the arch to the courtyard appeared ahead. He leapt to the ground, tethered the horse in the courtyard, then strode to the double doors to the house, which swung open when he pulled them.

  He hesitated. He’d told the woman to keep the house locked. Had enemy troops been here? Had they found the woman, Saleem and the children?

  He swallowed and stepped into the dim, musty chamber. Everything seemed exactly as when he’d left hours earlier. There was no sign of a struggle.

  ‘Saleem,’ he called out.

  No reply.

  He poked his head into the bedroom and was surprised to see that Charles’s body had been removed.

  Strange.

  He marched to the trapdoor, flung it open and stared down into the gloomy cellar. It was empty.

  ‘Saleem!’

  He dashed through the other rooms on the ground floor, then hurried up the stairs and searched the top storey. There was no one about. Had they all escaped? Taking Charles’s body with them? As he’d ridden across the city, he’d seen thousands fleeing over London Bridge or in small boats across the Thames. Hopefully Saleem and the others were amongst them.

  He juddered back downstairs, kicked the trapdoor closed, then turned to leave.

  His heart shot into his throat.

  A figure in a hooded cloak stood in the entrance, silhouetted against the grey light.

  Jack swung the musket from his shoulder and pointed it at the figure. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

  ‘Wait.’ The figure raised a hand and drew back the cowl.

  Jack blinked a few times. It was Kanvar the Sikh, his orange turban smeared with dirt and his thin face more gaunt than before.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jack kept the musket trained on Kanvar.

  ‘Following you.’ Kanvar stepped into the room, his pallid eyes boring into Jack.

  ‘Following me.’

  Kanvar cast a glance about the room, seemingly unconcerned that there was a firearm pointing at him. ‘Yes. I sensed you.’ He looked at Jack again. ‘I sensed what you did.’

  ‘I don’t have time for riddles.’

  Kanvar stepped closer. ‘You broke the law of karma. You used a new power when your learning had already been blocked. You shouldn’t have been able to do that. No one’s ever done that.’

  Jack gripped the musket tighter. It looked as though Jhala had spoken the truth, then – the law of karma really did work as he’d said.

  ‘There’s something . . . unusual about you,’ Kanvar went on. ‘I could tell in Dorsetshire. There was something, but I didn’t know what.’

  ‘There’s nothing unusual about me. You lot, you siddhas, have been lying to me for years. Why should I believe anything you say?’

  Kanvar frowned and stared at his hands for a moment. Then he looked up again. ‘You don’t trust me. I understand. But I’m here to help. I’ll show you.’ He reached for something under his cloak.

  Jack flinched. ‘Stop.’

  ‘It’s just this.’ Kanvar waved a piece of cloth about twenty inches square. On it was embroidered an intricate circular design. A yantra.

  Jack flexed his fingers on the musket. Where was this going?

  ‘Here.’ Kanvar held out the cloth. ‘It’s a new yantra for you to learn.’

  ‘Is this a trick?’

  Kanvar shook his head. ‘Try it. It’ll help you.’

  ‘What’s the power?’

  ‘Try it, then you’ll see.’

  Jack didn’t know what Kanvar wanted with him, but he was also tempted by the offer of a yantra. Finally, he lowered the musket and took the cloth. He studied the yantra and was taken aback for a moment – it was far larger and more detailed than the two he’d previously learnt. It would take many months to memorise. Not that this mattered to him at the moment.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stuffed the cloth in his pocket and slipped the musket back on to his shoulder. ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘You must come with me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I know where you’ll be safe.’ Kanvar trod closer and grasped Jack’s arm.

  Jack shook off Kanvar’s hand. ‘Listen. I don’t know what this is about, but I’m going to Poole and you’re not going to stop me. Now, get out of my way.’

  Kanvar stepped aside, face solemn. ‘Of course, it’s your choice.’

  ‘Right.’ That had been easy. ‘Farewell, then.’ He walked to the doorway.

  ‘Jack.’

  He stopped and looked back at the Sikh.

  ‘Stay alive,’ Kanvar said.

  Jack couldn’t help smiling at this. ‘I’ll try.’

  20

  Jack stopped the horse on a rise, leapt to the ground and collapsed to his knees. The moon was bright and the night sky clear, sobbing stars. The road to Dorsetshire glimmered faintly and the fields o
f barley to either side swayed.

  He clasped his hands before him and bowed his head. He shouldn’t have stopped – he had to get to Poole as quickly as possible – but he also knew he had to spare a moment to do this.

  Our Father,

  you who are in heaven,

  may your name be holy,

  may your kingdom come.

  May your will be done,

  on earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us today our daily bread.

  And release us from our debts to you,

  just as we also release our own debtors.

  And let us not be tempted,

  but free us from evil.

  Amen.

  He’d been riding almost without stopping for over a day. He’d escaped from London without much trouble and then ridden hard through Surrey and the smouldering, ruined landscape of Hampshire. He’d met soldiers along the road occasionally, but none had stopped or questioned him. The country was only now beginning to recover from the chaos of the mutiny and it seemed that no one was much interested in a soldier like him, wandering the countryside.

  William’s body still hung across the back of the charger.

  ‘Please Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,’ Jack said. ‘I betrayed my friend. I betrayed my country. But I had to do it for my daughter.’

  Sickness rose in his throat.

  Our deaths will be a message to our children and grandchildren. William had said that before he’d died.

  ‘William, you haven’t died in vain,’ Jack whispered. ‘Old friend, I’ll keep your dream of freedom alive. You will be remembered.’

  But first he had to free Elizabeth.

  He jumped back on the horse and spurred the animal into a gallop. It was getting late, around ten o’clock. He’d made good time and now there was just the final ride down into Dorsetshire remaining. But he would have to keep up the pace if he was going to get to Jhala before the pardon ran out.

  During the long ride, thoughts of the mutiny – the crusade – had swirled and churned like opposing tides in his head. The crusade had failed, as he’d always known it would. But it wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be the end.