Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  ‘My commanding officer is Colonel Hawke. I’m with Major Lovelace. We’re an independent intelligence-gathering unit.’

  Light came into the subaltern’s eyes. ‘Oh, I know you, you’re the fellah whom Deighnton talks about.’

  Jack sighed and looked away. ‘Yes, I expect I am.’

  The subaltern moved closer to Jack, looking about him to make sure they were alone, and said, ‘Next time, don’t miss.’

  Then the officer was gone, back into a tent opening barred by two formidable looking soldiers of the 93rd, with legs as thick as tree trunks sticking out of the bottoms of their kilts. They turned hard Scottish eyes on Jack as he stood there, wondering whether to blunder past them, to take his chance. But he could see it would be like trying to barge through two buffaloes and gave up the thought.

  As he was walking away however, the guard was changed. He turned back again, thinking there might be an opportunity to slip past two new sentries, who had not seen him ejected by the subaltern. But he found his path blocked by a short, square, very solid man with a rigid expression. The soldier, a sergeant major, came to attention and saluted briskly.

  ‘Gud day t’ye, sir. And a pleasant day it is.’

  ‘Sergeant Major Mclntyre!’ cried Jack. ‘How the devil are you?’

  A grin appeared on Jock Mclntyre’s rugged face. ‘Aye, as well as could be expected, given this bloody war.’ He looked Jack up and down, retaining the wry smile. ‘An officer, is it? I well ken the time ye thocht officers were the dregs o’ the army, sir. A wee change o’ mind, eh?’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is, Jock. I’m one of those fate is determined to thrust greatness upon, whether I like it or not. Look, Jock, can you get me into that tent? I have to speak with Brigadier Walpole.’

  ‘Can ye no walk in yersel?’ Then Jock seemed to understand. ‘Ah. Ye’ve tried it, but . . .’

  Jack’s expression must have told Jock the whole story.

  The sergeant-major shook his head sadly. ‘Sorry, sir. I ken the problems ye’ll be havin’, wi’ the commander. He’s a wee bit deef when it comes to listening, if that’s no a daft thing tae say. Ye’ll have the stripes off mah arm and it took aye too long tae get them there, ah’m afraid.’

  Jack nodded. ‘All right, Jock. I understand. Good to see you again, anyway. I’d shake your hand but it’d look a bit unsol-dierly to those two kilted Colossi, guarding the gates of the Good and Great.’

  ‘Aye, I’d rather ye didn’t, but the feeling’s mutual, lieutenant. Ye deserve the rank. How’s the hand?’

  Jack held up the stump. ‘Gone.’

  ‘But no a bother, ah hope?’

  ‘I’m getting used to it.’

  Jack left his old friend Jock and went back to his group. King was incensed when he learned they were being ignored.

  ‘What are we here for, sir? Just to look pretty?’

  ‘I thought it was to draw maps, Sergeant.’

  King flinched. ‘Well, that’s the most important thing, I’ll grant, but there is this other side to our work . . .’

  Despite advice, Walpole attacked the fort from the jungle. The Highlanders and the Punjabis became entangled in the undergrowth and those in the fort had a field day. They could not believe their luck. Nirpat Singh had intended to make a token resistance, then beg for terms. Instead the rebel leader took advantage of the incredibly bad tactics of the brigadier. The British took many casualties, including one popular high-ranking officer among the many who were slaughtered, and the troops were incensed. Wave after wave of infantry was halted and finally the brigadier came to his senses and ordered the withdrawal of the Highlanders and Punjabis, bringing up his cannons rather too late to bombard the fort’s walls and towers.

  Sajan stood by a gun crew and watched them go through their actions. The boy was as fascinated by the gunners as he was with the map-making of his adopted father. He loved mechanical devices, whether their purpose be peace or war. Most of his short life had thus far been spent as a punka wallah in a rajah’s guest bedroom. Now here he was, out and about in the world, able to witness an attack on a fort. It was exciting and enthralling to a youngster of his age. He watched as the sponge-man swabbed out the barrel while the ventsman placed a leather-covered thumb over the vent’s aperture to prevent any explosion from a residue of the last charge. Then the next charge and round were rammed home. He noticed that the spongestaff only needed to be reversed to provide the rammer. Once the charge and shot were rammed home the ventsman inserted a pricker down the vent aperture to puncture the charge bag. Finally the firer put a smouldering portfire to the vent and the shot was sent on its way.

  Each time the gun was fired, Sajan jumped with the noise, even though he had his fingers in his ears.

  ‘Big bang!’ he kept saying. ‘When I am as old as my father, I shall make a gun with a noise no louder than a pop.’

  The artillery attack continued into the dark night.

  In the morning Walpole was furious to find the fort empty. Nirpat Singh and his men had escaped during the night. It was a hollow victory. Jack knew that the troops had been close to mutiny when they realized what a mess their brigadier had made of the battle, and Walpole narrowly escaped being executed by his own men. It was clear to everyone he was no military leader and many officers wanted him replaced immediately. However, as with such situations, nothing was done at the time. Walpole ordered the column to march on to Fatehgarh, where they were joined by General Campbell and his column, who assumed command and took them on to Shahjahanpur, which was also found evacuated. Finally the combined force reached Miranpur Katra well inside Rohilkand. Awaiting them were the troops of one General Penny, who had been killed earlier in an ambush.

  It was here too, that Major Lovelace caught up with his intelligence unit and briefed Jack.

  ‘Campbell has missed catching the Maulvi at Shahjahanpur,’ explained the cold-eyed major. ‘We think Nana Sahib was also there. It’s a great shame. We could have dealt a double blow to the rebels. You know how badly we want Nana Sahib.’

  Nana Sahib was believed to be responsible for several atrocities committed against British families, one of them being the massacre in Cawnpore. There were men in the British Army who would have given a fortune to have Nana Sahib at their mercy. In fact the word mercy would not have been heard. It would have been lost in the baying of the wild dogs as they tore their victim to pieces.

  ‘Campbell is now going to push on to Bareilly. He’s going after Khan Bahadur Khan. You and your men need to ride ahead to assess the size of Khan’s army, his strength in the field and the lie of the land. You’ll report back directly to the general.’

  ‘I tried that with Brigadier Walpole and got snubbed,’ replied Jack.

  ‘Walpole is an idiot,’ Lovelace said. ‘You and I know Campbell’s worth.’

  Jack turned his mind to the task. It was not an easy mission, going on ahead alone, with bands of malefactors wandering the countryside just looking for an opportunity to hang some British soldiers. The pot was boiling and several armies of rebels had fractured into smaller groups, either trying to find their way to an area where they could hide from retribution or seeking revenge themselves. Two years ago a European could have walked from one end of the country to the other and felt safe from attack – Thugs and Gujars accepted – but all that had changed since the mutiny.

  ‘It won’t be a cricket match,’ said Jack.

  ‘No, but it’s necessary. I wouldn’t send you out there, if I didn’t believe that.’

  Lovelace was a calculating man. Not thoroughly callous, but certainly uncompromising when it came to his work. Jack Crossman had seen him kill in cold blood without compunction in order to extract or protect information necessary to win battles. He was a user of men. It was not that he thought his own soldiers totally expendable – far from it; he knew that a good man saved today could be used again tomorrow – but given the opportunity he would exchange any one of them for a prize like Khan. Major Lovelace was
not the sort of man you wanted to know outside the army.

  Jack said, ‘We’ll do our best, you know that, Nathan.’

  Major Lovelace gave him a rare smile. ‘Of course, Jack. By the by, I hear you’ve been in a spot of bother.’

  Jack knew immediately what Nathan was talking about.

  ‘You mean the duel.’

  ‘Yes – a Captain Deighnton I understand? He seems to like duelling. I’m told he’s just killed his third man. Very expensive, having a chap like that in our army. Good men are not easy to find.’

  ‘How does he get away with it?’ asked Jack frowning. ‘Duelling isn’t exactly condoned by authority. I felt I was between a rock and a hard place. If he killed me, well then I would be dead. If I killed him, however, I feared a court martial and subsequent punishment. Yet nothing seems to happen to this man, however many duels he fights.’

  Lovelace’s eyes half-closed as he drew on a cigarello.

  ‘I made inquiries,’ he said, as he blew out a thin veil of smoke. ‘Someone’s protecting him. Those around him, his colleagues, are quite afraid of him – scared to speak out against him. Of course they’re also terrified of being ostracized by their fellow officers if they break the code of honour and bear witness. There have actually been two Courts of Inquiry, but the case has petered out both times. Deighnton leads a charmed life. He’s under the wing of some high-ranking official – or perhaps more than one?’

  ‘Well, the last officer he killed was just a boy.’

  Lovelace raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You saw it? You wouldn’t care to bear witness, I suppose?’

  ‘Nathan, I’m as weak as any man when it comes to protecting my honour. I’d be a ruined man . . . even you would look the other way when I walked past. Admit it. You’d cut me dead, wouldn’t you, Nathan?’

  ‘I suppose I’d have to. Damn this culture, this upbringing. We’re locked in it. What was the boy’s name by the way?’

  ‘He was an ensign. I believe they called him Faulks.’

  ‘Faulks? Daniel Faulks?’

  ‘I never heard him called by his first name.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re talking of Lord Holbrook’s nephew. Interesting,’ muttered Lovelace. ‘The dispatches that went back stated that young Ensign Faulks fell in battle. Died bravely I think they said.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that’s unusual.’

  ‘Jack, what do you know of Lord Holbrook?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not a great deal. He’s a friend of my father’s – or was, when Pa was in his right mind. I believe my brother has met with him once or twice since he assumed control of the estates in Scotland – apart from that, no – not a lot.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, try to stay out of the bastard’s way – Deighnton, I mean. He’ll get his one day. It always puzzles me how these villains manage to elude death in battle. They’re seldom cowards. I’ve seen him fight. Plenty of elan. Always at the front. War – like golf – is dreadfully unfair, Jack.’

  They shook hands and Lovelace left. The pair had been standing a little apart from the rest of the unit, who had pitched their tents. Raktambar was feeding and watering the mounts. Sajan was helping Gwilliams cook over a camel-dung fire. Wynter was ram-cleaning his Enfield. He was not normally one for polishing his kit, but he knew a clean rifle might save his life.

  Sergeant King was drawing a map in the leatherbound notebook he carried. It was about half-a-yard long and six-inches wide, this notepad, with good thick paper. He was making a route map, the kind of map a marching army liked best because it was simple to follow, it left out unnecessary detail, and it revealed the shortest distance between two points. From Jack’s point of view it looked like a snake wriggling down the page, with only pertinent landmarks on either side.

  ‘I expect you miss your team of helpers, do you not?’ he asked King. ‘I’m sorry we haven’t the time for such work at the moment.’

  When they had first come to India, King had asked the lieutenant to recruit a band of mapmaker’s men to help measure the ground. Men to stand with posts and mirrors. Men to help carry and set up the heavy mapmaker’s equipment. The theodolite on its own needed two men to lift it. The measuring chain was also extremely heavy, being a hundred feet of steel, and there were other tools just as weighty. A whole team of men and two camel carts had been needed to drag the iron, brass and steel gadgets halfway up India. Now they had been left in Peshawar, awaiting the outcome of the mutiny.

  ‘Yes,’ said King, ‘I admit it, sir.’ He stuck out his square jaw. ‘I know it means very little to you.’

  Jack stiffened a little. ‘I said I was sorry, Sergeant. Don’t make me retract the words.’

  King looked up from his drawing, not for the first time having forgotten to whom he was speaking. ‘Oh – sorry, sir. I have a big mouth.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what I came to talk to you about anyway. Tomorrow morning, early, I’m going to take two men with me to reconnoitre the enemy defences. One of them will not be you. I’m leaving you behind with Sajan and Gwilliams. I just wanted you to understand the reasons.’

  King raised his eyebrows. ‘They being, sir?

  ‘You can’t shoot for love or money.’

  King knew this and shrugged. ‘That hasn’t stopped you before.’

  ‘No, but I think three is a good number. I’m obviously taking Raktambar. And I want to give Wynter a baptism of fire. Who knows, he might want to rejoin the regiment afterwards. I would like that. In any case, he’s had it soft until now. He needs to be reinitiated into the ways of the spy and saboteur. So there’s no room for you.’

  ‘Fine. And what if you don’t come back?’

  ‘Get in touch with Major Lovelace.’

  The next morning the dawn boiled over the horizon. It was one of the hottest days Jack had experienced in India, being 112 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. The three riders headed out into the bushy landscape before most of the camp had stirred. Dull-eyed sentries watched them go, wondering if these three were getting out of something bad or getting into it. One of the riders was already complaining and not just about the heat.

  ‘Why me?’ whined Wynter. ‘Why not one of the others? Gwilliams could’ve come, couldn’t he? He’s a better shot than me.’

  ‘This is not about shooting, Wynter, this is about observing. If it comes to a shooting match, all three of us are dead.’

  ‘Do we need this dog along with us?’ growled Raktambar. ‘Best if we were just two.’

  ‘Who are you callin’ a dog?’ cried Wynter, kicking his horse to get up alongside the Rajput.

  A dark hand flashed out and chopped Wynter across the throat. The private reined in his mount, choking on his own air for a moment. Jack and Raktambar drew up too, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, Wynter gave voice to a series of complaints, all directed at his lieutenant.

  ‘What’re you goin’ to do about that, sir?’

  ‘Do? Nothing. You’re lucky that was the edge of Raktambar’s hand and not his sabre. I wish it had been his tulwar. It would save me a lot of trouble to leave you here with your throat cut. Just behave yourself. Show some respect to your betters.’

  Wynter spluttered, ‘I always show respect to officers.’

  ‘I’m talking about Raktambar.’

  ‘Him? Why he’s a – well – he an’t nothing but a . . .’ Providence intervened to save Harry Wynter from digging his own grave. He pointed over Jack’s shoulder. ‘Look, there’s some dust up ahead.’

  There was indeed a dust cloud, which indicated horsemen.

  ‘Into that clump of trees,’ said Jack. ‘Quickly.’

  Two

  The dust cloud out on the plain was being created not by horsemen but by runners. A band of around two dozen Indians appeared out of the shimmering heatwaves like phantoms from another world. They ran past the copse in which Crossman, Wynter and Raktambar were sitting quietly on their steeds. Some of the Indians wore pieces of Company
Army uniform, which indicated they had probably been sepoys at one time. Others wore civilian clothes. They were all armed, though many only with bladed weapons. At least one carried an Enfield, which was puzzling since these were the rifles over which the army had mutinied. The sepoys had wanted nothing to do with weapons which needed cartridges greased with animal fat.

  As the Indians were trotting by, one of them happened to look into the trees and Jack knew he and his men had been seen. However, though the observer stared for a good few moments, he said nothing to his comrades, and eventually turned away again. Jack was relieved.

  ‘We were seen,’ he told the other two, ‘but not recognized.’

  The reason they were not identified as British soldiers was because they looked nothing like army men. All three wore loose Indian cotton clothing and turbans. Both Jack and Wynter had been weathered and burned by the sun. (Wynter was darker than Raktambar, who had lived and worked in a palace most of his life, though the irony of that fact would be lost on him.) A close scrutiny of Jack and Wynter might reveal the European under the skin, but in the mottled shade of the trees, from a distance of fifty yards, it was impossible to tell.

  ‘Lucky,’ murmured Raktambar. ‘Very lucky, sahib.’

  They rode out of the trees and continued their journey. As they travelled across the Ganges plain, which lay astonishingly flat and mysterious before them, Jack voiced his earlier observation.

  ‘Wynter, how is that your skin is so dark? You’Ve only been in India for a short while, haven’t you?’

  The disgruntled soldier flashed a look at the back of his own hand to confirm the fact, then argued, ‘I an’t black.’

  ‘No, I really am curious. Answer my question.’

  ‘We marched here from the Crimea.’

  Jack pulled on the reins of his mount, quite astonished. ‘You marched? What, all of you?’

  ‘Some of us come by ship, some by foot. I was one of them what come by foot.’

  Jack knew that British troops had been hastily sent to India from all the nearest countries – Burma, Ceylon, Mauritius, Persia – even soldiers on their way to China had turned back to assist in the quelling of the mutiny. But to march from the Crimea to central India, why that was some feat. It was over 3000 miles, through harsh arid mountain regions, across deserts, swamps, over raging rivers and deep gorges, not to mention jungles.