Taft laughed aloud, proud of his initiative, sure that his admired senior would be pleased with him.
“They took the bait, sir – they were not to be called cheap bully-boys, they were not pantomime braggarts. They said their man would stand against anybody, with any weapon. Pistols, sir, at six o’clock tomorrow morning, out on the maidan.”
The colonel of the Devonshires was half-approving, but no more than that, felt he must offer a warning.
“The Edgeworths are very well-connected, you know, Major Pearce. They are bad enemies for a serving officer.”
“I shall risk that, sir. The man irritated me, and I am not about to delope, I think. Mr Taft has done very well, once again.”
Taft swelled in delight – he was proud now to be a soldier, to be valued as a man. The colonel still thought it might be wiser not to kill an Edgeworth.
“Better that you should fire to miss, Major Pearce. You have more than enough justification to kill him, that I will admit, but that family will certainly remember you if you end his troubling.”
Had Septimus been in a better frame of mind, and had Marianne been at hand to reason with him, then he might have taken notice of the colonel’s warning. As it was, he was in a mood to go out at dawn.
Septimus dressed in his best in the morning, Cooper overseeing proudly, twitching at his linen stock to make all square. He walked the furlong to the maidan, a stretch of turf kept for gallops and public parades and a promenade for the families of the officers and gentry of the town. His party arrived first and waited a couple of minutes, chatting quietly for the benefit of the audience of virtually every officer of the garrison, King’s and Company rarely intermingled.
Major Edgeworth drove up, accompanied by his seconds, swaggered across and took a place a little too close to Septimus for courtesy. His seconds noticed and turned his attention in their direction. Colonel Vaughan stepped forward, the Brigadier at his side, and announced that he would take charge of the meeting, not having taken any part in the discussion leading to the challenge and thus being of neither party. By doing so he was effectively giving approval and accepting that it was a matter of honour under the unofficial military code; there would be no court case arising from the affair.
Pistols were produced – officers’ side-arms Septimus saw, not purpose made duelling pieces. Being heavier calibre, the side-arms demanded greater shooting skill.
The colonel called for ten paces and Edgeworth’s seconds said they preferred eight. The Brigadier supported the colonel.
“Ten regulation paces, gentlemen.”
They would be twenty yards apart, using pistols with eight inch barrels. Septimus knew he could hit a man-sized target without fail in such circumstances; he wondered whether Edgeworth could.
The colonel called the duellists to him, asked if they could not settle their differences without fighting.
Septimus stood to formal attention, said that he could not; he had been gratuitously insulted by a bullying buffoon.
Edgeworth had a choice of offering a formal, public apology or of continuing with the duel. To apologise was to show yellow, must be followed by an instant resignation of his commission. He shook his head unhappily; he could finally see that his life was in danger, and that had not been part of the game he had intended to play. He was no great pistol shot, had hoped for sixteen yards or less, was not at all pleased with the way the business was turning out, but he could not protest or offer to refuse; he could do nothing other than obey the commands he was given. He began to sweat, rubbed his hands dry on his shirt. The officers watching buzzed with comment as they observed his demeanour.
Colonel Vaughan called the two together, gave his final instructions before setting them back to back.
“Ten paces, gentleman, then cock your pieces. At the call of ‘Turn’ you will face each other and then fire at will.”
They marched their paces, each of exact parade ground length, watched by all present. The colonel stepped slowly back out of harm’s way, deliberately taking his time, letting Edgeworth become more nervous, then made his call.
Septimus took a deep breath, exhaling as he swung round, arm rising, pistol steadying on Edgeworth’s head then dropping slowly to his chest as he gently squeezed the trigger. He heard the explosion of Edgeworth’s piece just as his own fired. He had no idea where Edgeworth’s ball flew, but he saw the man crumple and fall face forwards.
Face down normally meant dead, in Septimus’ experience. Wounded men almost never dropped on their faces, unless they had taken a head wound and were immediately unconscious.
He strolled across to his seconds and took his coat from Captain Taft, making a display of settling it properly on his shoulders.
“He fired wild, sir, snatched at the trigger.”
“Foolish of him, Mr Taft, but I really cannot say that I am sorry.”
They watched as the surgeon stood from Edgeworth’s body, shaking his head. One of his seconds, a young captain, came across to Septimus and announced his principal’s death.
“How very unfortunate, sir. I am sure we shall send a party from the battalion to attend the funeral.”
Colonel Vaughan and the Brigadier joined the three and they walked to the Mess for breakfast; none of them gave a backward glance, as was correct protocol – they should not seem to gloat as the body was removed.
“Well, Major Pearce, he was a nasty little sod, and no doubt about it. But I suspect he may come back to haunt you in later years, sir.” The Brigadier raised his wine glass. “Your very good health, sir!”
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK TWO
Chapter Nine
The word came to make ready and a week later was followed by the order to march the battalion south to Poona where it would join the Company forces already in garrison. The Peshwa of the Marathas, Baji Rao, had been returned to his throne and was to supply forces as well, raised from his own lands around Poona and demanded from all of the other Maratha states.
Colonel Vaughan suggested that this would supply an instant answer to the question of the loyalty of the others. Those who sent troops to Poona could reasonably be regarded as supporters of Baji Rao; those who did not were his enemy, and by extension the Company’s.
“Will there be neutrals, sir? Is it possible that there are rajas, or whatever they may be called, who might have no objection to the Company but cannot swallow Baji Rao?”
Colonel Vaughan shook his head decisively.
“The Company has offered its backing to the legitimate authority, Major Pearce. It is take it or leave it, I fear. If they cannot bow their heads to their Peshwa, then they are untrustworthy in the Company’s eyes. Really, sir, it is simple enough – they are offered independence in some matters, obedience in others on the one hand; subjugation on the other. The choice is theirs, but they cannot pick what elements they want. Negotiations are over, Major Pearce; it is now a matter of an ultimatum.”
Septimus regarded that as a sensible attitude – the Company had tried to talk to the Marathas for many years, had endeavoured to persuade them to cooperate. Now it was time to point out that the old days were gone.
For a generation and more the Marathas had been able to play off the French against the English, and they had done so very well, showing great political skill. They had employed European soldiers to train their forces and had built an artillery park second to none in Asia and had enlisted massive forces of cavalry from all over India. Their infantry was less impressive, however, and included a number of Arab mercenaries of dubious fighting ability, old fashioned in their ways and armament.
The Company had far smaller forces of cavalry and their artillery was limited; discipline of both was probably, they believed, superior to the Marathas. In terms of infantry, the sepoys and the Kings’ Regiments regarded themselves as the best on Earth; their musketry practice was outstanding. It remained to be seen whether they could prevail at odds of ten to one and more.
Septimus commente
d that he had never fought a native army before; it would be an interesting experience.
“I am told they die just as well as the French, Major Pearce, and with equal facility.”
“I would imagine so, sir. The men will certainly have no doubts about the outcome. I must say that I shall not expect to experience defeat, not while I am leading people like ours.”
“Well said, sir. While I think of it, Major Pearce, I understand it is your habit to take the field with just the one servant?”
“Cooper, sir, who has been with me since I joined. He is my follower in every sense of the word, of course, will never leave my service. My back is safe while he is with me.”
Colonel Vaughan had never been in the position to recruit a fighting man to his personal service; he envied Septimus.
“What I am to say is that the one man is no longer sufficient to your dignity, Major Pearce. You should have a second from the battalion and a pair, at least, of bearers from your domestic staff. There will be times when you must offer hospitality in the field and you must display a degree of state when you are seen by the natives, you know.”
It had not occurred to Septimus that he must be seen as an important figure outside the battalion. He was inclined to be incredulous.
“A major of the line, sir? Not the most stately of figures, surely!”
“There are none too many of our sort in India, Major Pearce, and we have to represent the King in all of his Majesty. The Indians, the ordinary sort especially, must see us as of a greater kind than them, lordly, if you wish. It was said not so many years ago that if all of the Indians chose to piss together then they could wash the British into the ocean – and that is not so far from true, you know! There is no count of exactly how many of us there are in India, but it cannot be as many as twenty thousand – and there may be one hundred million of them. We are the masters, for the while, and we must strut like the superior folk we must be!”
“Good Lord! That does mean that we must never be defeated, sir. If we once show as weak, as less than masters of the world, then we will be finished forever in India.”
“True indeed, Major Pearce – we rely on a great show of being the lords of creation. Did you ever hear of the tale of the Emperor’s Clothes?”
Septimus’ mother had told him the story, sat on her knee in his pampered childhood; he appreciated all that the colonel was implying.
“I shall expand my household with immediate effect, sir.”
Cooper thought it was an excellent idea. A cook, a bearer and a second batman, all to minister to Septimus’ consequence and his.
“Molly Grant, sir, that’s the lad we want.”
“’Molly’, Cooper? One of the convict draft?”
“Yes, well, he has his little ways, sir, I admit, but that’s no worry to us. Sent down for robbery, he was, but he says he was made the mug; he was a footman and took the blame for the master’s own younger son what was short of ready cash and sold off the family silver to a fence. He says he knew nothing of it till a silver plate was ‘discovered’ in his room.”
“How did the younger son come to have access to his room, Cooper?”
“Normal way, sir. It ain’t so unusual, is it, sir.”
The Mess Sergeant was of similar background and inclinations, after all, and that did not prevent him from doing an excellent job. There had been more than one of the New Foresters of that habit, and some of them had been outstanding soldiers…
“Ask him if he will take the place, Cooper. Do make sure he wants to – he might have different ideas.”
“No, I know he wants to be a batman. Spoken to me about it, so he has, to ask if I could put the good word in for him when next one’s needed.”
That would have cost a tot or two of rum, Septimus suspected – but that was none of his business.
“Good. I’ll talk to the major-domo chap for a cook and a bearer.”
“Beg, pardon, sir, but I will talk to him, if that’s all right with you. Good bloke, old Mahesh; he and I get on together. He and I have worked it out that his second boy will be coming back to England with us to be a manservant. Real good job, that would be, or so they reckons.”
Again, it was none of Septimus’ business.
“Do it for me, please, Cooper.”
“Yes, sir. Molly Grant and two bearers and the syces for the mules and a couple of boys to cut fodder for them and a pair of them badmash wallahs with guns to guard them all. Might want their own cook, too. See about that this week, sir!”
Fourteen men to make up his personal train; add to that however many of wives and spare young females they might accumulate between them, and quite possibly children as well. He might end up with fifty camp-followers of his own.
He wondered for a second what it would be like when he returned to England and became a mere human being rather than a sahib. It might not be too easy, he suspected.
Molly Grant appeared and took up quarters in the house for a few days before they marched. When they returned he would have his own room furnished for him. The sole change Septimus noticed was that Grant took over shaving him of a morning, claiming to be particularly skilful in the barbering line; he might have been right, but Septimus felt none the different for his services.
They marched at four o’clock in the morning and had nine of their fifteen miles in by seven o’clock. They bivouacked through the heat of the day and marched again soon after sunset, were in the night’s billet by nine o’clock. Some battalions chose to move between dusk and midnight; others would shift at two in the morning and make camp soon after first light. Each battalion knew that its own practice was much the better for the men. None of them ever tried a march through the heat of late morning and early afternoon.
Colonel Vaughan wondered if they should not make the attempt so that the men might grow acclimatised.
“What if we have to mount a pursuit, Major Pearce?”
“Then, sir, we must trust in the horse soldiers during the hours of daylight, for we cannot kill our men. What they do to their horses is their business, sir.”
“But, we might receive orders from the General, Major Pearce!”
“Very true, sir. We would of course obey them to the best of our ability and understanding.”
“You are not being entirely serious, Major Pearce. I fear there may be a satirical streak in you, sir!”
“Not me, Colonel Vaughan. I am a soldier, sir!”
“And what exactly does that mean, Major Pearce?”
“It means that the General may go and… find a dark corner and do unusual things to himself, sir! I am not killing my men by blind obedience to stupid orders.”
“There is no such thing as a ‘stupid’ order, Major Pearce. An order is an order, that and no more.”
“I wholly agree, sir!”
Septimus stared at the colonel, perfectly straight-faced, waited for him to say more.
“I think we must keep you away from Horse Guards, Major Pearce. You could get yourself into so much trouble there!”
They entered Poona towards the end of January, joining the Company forces already there and two Scots battalions of the King’s army. The battalions all kept their own messes in the field but Septimus noticed a number of hard stares from Company officers when he passed them. It was not surprising; they only knew him as the man who had refused a duel with the sword but had forced a killing fight with one of their own.
Colonel Vaughan was aware of the background hostility, worried that it might create difficulties during the campaign. The word reached acting-Major General Wellesley as well and he demanded the truth of the matter from Vaughan.
“I have no use for these damned duels, Vaughan! Is your man one of these types who think to make a name for themselves by killing their own people?”
Vaughan assured him that the case was the exact opposite, that his Major Pearce had done all he could to avoid a meeting but had then decided to make the bully regret his temerity.
“
Major Pearce is not a man to offend lightly, sir, but he is a damned good officer. He had far rather face the French than a fellow officer, but will not shrink from doing what he sees as right in either case.”
“Knows how to fight, does he?”
“He has that name, sir. He was with the New Foresters when they were favourably commented on, sir.”
“In the Sugar Islands? With them there, was he?”
“Promoted without purchase to his captaincy, sir. Regimental rank, not Army.”
“That will do me, Colonel Vaughan! He must know how to stand his ground!”
Wellesley paid the Hampshires no further attention, the matter cleared up in his mind.
Soon after they marched north and east for Ahmednagar, the whole force perhaps twenty thousand strong, including the more-or-less irregular horsemen contributed by Baji Rao.
The march was somewhat harder than their casual progress to Poona, but the Hampshires showed within reason fit and lost very few men as stragglers.
“Bad country to be on your own, Colonel. The men fully believe that any left behind the column will be eaten by tigers, or killed off by the Thugs, whatever they might be.”
“Worshippers of Kali, Major Pearce. Bands of these people practice Thuggee on travellers, or so it is said, falling upon them in their sleep and strangling them as sacrifices to their Goddess, using a blessed and sacred scarf for the purpose. Of course, they also steal all they possess, which may play some part in their religious fervour!”
“They really exist then, sir?”
“Probably, Major Pearce – but this is India! Who knows what might, or might not, be happening over the next hill?”
“I will tell my two men that they are certainly real, I think. The word will be through the battalion inside the day, and that will make sure they continue to pick their feet up!”
Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2) Page 23
