Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  Jack looked at Wynter with new eyes until the soldier cried, ‘What?’

  ‘You’re telling me the truth?’

  ‘Why would I tell a lie – you’d find out, eh?’

  ‘What happened on that march?’

  Wynter’s sly eyes narrowed. He was thinking back to it.

  ‘Not many of us got here. Lots of men died on the way – died of different things – some from fatigue, some was sick and just fell over an’ never got up again. Some was killed by tribesmen and such-like. We was attacked a good few times, I can tell you. Some went through hunger, some through thirst. There weren’t much water in a lot of places. Some was drowned though,’ he added, after reflection, ‘in fast rivers, which sounds kind of odd, don’t it, after I say we was dead thirsty most of the time? One man, Lance Corporal McGarvey, he shot himself on purpose, not bein’ able to go on. A few went mad when their brains boiled in the sun. We never left an able-bodied man behind though. Captain wouldn’t let us. We carried ’em until they died, then we buried ’em, pleased they’d gone at last. I hefted Jackson, a pal o’ mine, when he got sick, and I weren’t unhappy when he passed on. He was bleedin’ heavy, that bastard. I cursed him for a friend.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the ordeal you’ve been through, Wynter. Are you listening to this, Raktambar? A terrible trial.’

  Raktambar nodded slowly, still smarting it seemed from the insult he had been given, and was not willing to give Wynter credit for anything.

  Jack was amazed Wynter had not told him of all this before. He knew the soldier was survivor. Any man who had gone through the Crimean campaign and lived to tell the tale was a survivor. But to live through such a hard march and remain tight-lipped about it showed real character. What a perplexing creature was man, he thought. Harry Wynter was a sewer rat. He was lazy, dirty, foul-mouthed, self-serving and belligerent. He was insolent and untrustworthy. You could look for loyalty in him for ever and not find it. Yet such a man had been among the few – and there could only have been a few – to survive a death march across a continent. That showed grit and determination beyond the norm. That was an enormous achievement. Only men of great fortitude made marches like that.

  ‘Did your captain make it?’

  ‘None o’ them officers did. Sarn Major did. He was the ranking officer, when we got ’ere. None of them commissioned ones. One lieutenant went down in quickmud. Never left a ripple on top. Another one fell off a mountain. We could see ’im, all twisted up below, but couldn’t get to ’im. He might ’ave still been breathin’ for all we knew. Ensign got the cholera or yeller fever or somethin’. He went off with just a sigh. Young lad, not much more’n seventeen years, I would guess. They was all too soft, way I saw it, beggin’ your pardon, sir. Not like us at all.’

  ‘Well, hard men die in extremes too.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyways, here I am, back in the fold.’

  Despite his loathing for Wynter, Jack was impressed. It was hard not to be. One day he would find out about that march, the full truth of it, and satisfy his own curiosity on the vagaries of life and death. For the moment they were approaching a small village, a gathering of dung-built huts baked hard by the sun. There was one sorry-looking camel standing under a single thorn tree. One or two children were running around, but most were lying in the shade. Jack’s eyes scanned the dwellings and saw no untoward signs. They needed to water the horses and there was a well visible in the centre of the village.

  ‘Wynter,’ he said, ‘say nothing to anyone. Let Raktambar do the talking.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Wynter. ‘I can’t do that nonsense talk.’

  They went directly to the well and dismounted. It was a mere mud hole in the ground with no brickwork, but a greasy rope attached to a leather bowl lay by the opening. Wynter took this item and lowered the bowl into the darkness of the hole. At first he could not get the bowl to take water, then Raktambar, with some impatience, told the soldier to put a weighty stone in the bowl so that it would submerge. Once Wynter did this, he was able to raise enough water for the horses to drink their fill. No one from the village came to ask them who they were or what they were doing. An old woman eyed them from a doorway and two small children stood off from them, watching their every motion. No elders came out. Only a dog came to squeeze between two of the horses and lap the water they spilt.

  ‘Bloody dead-an’-alive place, an’t it?’ said Wynter. ‘Who’d live in a dump like this?’

  A few seconds after this a shot came from one of the dwellings, narrowly missing his head. All three men dropped to the ground. One of the horses shied and bolted. Jack reached inside his cottons with his good hand, seeking his revolver. He drew it and waited.

  Raktambar yelled, ‘Aapka shubh naarn kya hai?’ asking for the shooter’s name.

  ‘You are not fooling me,’ cried a voice from a hut. ‘I am hearing you speak English.’

  ‘Meri samajh men nahin aaya!’ retorted Raktambar.

  ‘Yes, you do understand me. I am hearing English from you.’ Another shot and a bullet slapped into the mud near Jack’s head. ‘We are many here. You will make a surrender or die.’

  Remaining with Hindi, Raktamber cried, ‘Yes, you heard English, from our prisoner. This scum of a British soldier is our captive. I am a Rajput – can you not hear? Are you an idiot or what? I shall make the prisoner stand up. You can shoot him if you wish. But hear this, we other two are Rajputs on our way to Bareilly to join with the great Khan.’

  Jack saw no alternative now but to make Wynter get to his feet. He stuck his revolver in Wynter’s face. ‘Get up. Stand,’ he whispered. ‘Quick.’

  ‘I an’t standin’ up,’ cried Wynter. ‘You’ve got another bloody think comin’, sir. Not for nothin’ I an’t.’

  Jack kicked him sideways in the thigh.

  ‘Up, up, or I shoot you myself.’

  Raktambar took matters in his own hands. He got to his feet slowly, gripped Wynter by the hair and yanked the soldier to his feet. Holding him there, he invited the shooter to leave his hut and inspect the captive.

  ‘Come on out,’ cried Raktambar, still talking in Hindi. ‘Come and see this squirming rat for yourself.’

  There was silence for a while, then the voice said, ‘I am coming out, but my comrades will be covering for me. If there is any trickery they will shoot you all down dead.’

  After another few moments a small figure in a turban and dhoti came out of one of the huts, a rifle in his hands. When he was halfway across the baked-mud square of the village, Raktambar suddenly dropped the whinging Wynter and drew a pistol from his cummerbund. The approaching man’s eyes widened and he raised his rifle, but Raktambar was quicker. He shot the man full in the chest. Jack was on his knees, ready to return fire at any others who opened up at them from the dwellings. No shots came.

  ‘He was alone,’ confirmed Raktambar, ‘just as I thought.’

  Jack got to his feet. There was no one in sight now. The old lady had vanished along with the two children. Even the dog had gone. It was as if the whole village was deserted. Jack went to the dead man and turned him over. He was quite young, perhaps not more than twenty, with handsome features and a lithe body. Yet in height he was no more than four feet eight inches. Not a child though, a grown man. Jack felt some relief at knowing this. For a few minutes he had suspected it was a child.

  They went to the hut from which the rebel had emerged and there they found a dead British soldier. His clothes were torn and stained with berry juice and there were scratches – thorn bushes? – covering his face and hands. It would seem he had become detached from his unit, his comrades, whatever, and had struck out on his own trying to find a way back to his camp or column. There were many like him. Civilians too. Wandering around, some half-mad with fear and hunger, many of them naked having been robbed of their clothes. Others, having been taken in by villagers and hidden from their pursuers, had been treated with utmost kindness. This one had found neither hospitality nor robbers but the enem
y.

  ‘Well, we know where that Enfield came from now,’ said Jack. ‘Some dacoit has got himself a good weapon and isn’t fussy about the grease used on the cartridge. Well, there’s nothing we can do for this fellow now. Wynter, go through his pockets and see if you can find any identification on him.’ The lieutenant looked around him. ‘Ah, there’s some lamp oil over there. Once you’ve checked his pockets, pour some on the body.’

  They left a few minutes later, unsuccessful in their attempts to find out the dead soldier’s name. Raktambar set fire to the hut which served as a pyre for the corpse. The walls were fashioned from crisp palm leaves and the roof thatched with reeds. Both were as dry as kitchen-stove kindling. They went up in a great flaring blaze. The trio had to get out quickly and be on their way. The flames and smoke would be seen for miles.

  Jack was aware that now they would probably never find out who the soldier had been, but what was he to do? They could not carry the cadaver with them and to leave it without burial did not seem right. Cremation seemed the only sensible option.

  When they were safely outside the village again, Jack said to Raktambar, ‘How did you know that rebel was alone?’

  ‘I thought it, though I did not know it. If there were more, they would have given voice along with this one. The rebels are very excited at this time, being free from the British. They like to give voice in their liberty. They are very proud and feel they have their honour back. If he had been with others, we would have heard from them too, not just this one.’

  At that moment shots began humming around the three riders. Wynter let out a loud yowl and clutched at his right ear. ‘I’ve been clipped,’ he yelled.

  Jack, looking behind them, saw that the runners had returned. Without doubt they had come from the same village where Raktambar had shot the man. Perhaps they had left just one of their number behind and now they had arrived back to discover his hut ablaze. On they came now, at a very fast pace, firing their weapons but not pausing to reload.

  ‘Up, up,’ cried Jack. ‘Leather your horses.’

  The three men spurred their mounts and shot forward, out into the dusty plain. Wynter had blood streaming from his ear, but for the moment he was not complaining about it. There was a look of serious intent on his features: the same sort of intent that had got him through that long march from the Crimean peninsula. Raktambar, on the best horse, surged in front. Jack did his best to keep up with his Indian bodyguard, praying that none of their steeds hit an animal hole or stumbled over their own hooves.

  Soon the trio left the runners behind, as the pursuers dropped off one by one, until there were none following.

  In the late evening they camped in a mango grove where Wynter’s ear was patched. After eating they all smoked in silence. Then, exhausted by their ride, all three simply lay beneath the trees and fell fast asleep for the night. Wynter was woken by a wildcat of some kind, which dropped on him by accident from a branch above. It ran off without scratching or biting him, for which he considered himself lucky. In the morning some women arrived to tend to the trees. The three men left the orchard, snatching a bite of salted meat on the ride.

  They rode for another day before nearing the houses of Bareilly. As they got closer they could see thousands of rebels gathered around camp fires. The smoke curling up in the wind-less air created a thick fug. It was the end of the day, when dust, smoke and heatwaves mingled to warp the landscape. A darkening sky was blotched with deep-red smears which might have been cirrus clouds. The noise from the enemy encampments – pots clattering, men gabbling, women shrieking for their children – filled the twilight world.

  A wave of stink passed over the trio as they dismounted half a mile from the enemy camp, which recalled for Jack his Crimean days. It was simply the smell of a horde of men. Their cesspits were probably open to the elements. Their urinal patches would be in constant use and the contents would have no time to evaporate. There was probably only just enough water to drink, let alone wash in. They were crowded together, farting and belching, the dregs of their meals rotting on the ground. The stench of thousands of fly-spotted cavalry chargers sweating and defecating on a plain where there was no wind to carry away the unpleasant odours they produced.

  Raktambar found a hut with an aged tattooed elephant hobbled outside. The occupant of the hut, a thin and grizzled elderly man, seemed uninterested in his visitors. There were so many men – several thousand of them – in the vicinity. In which case locals like him might easily lose interest. His eyes were wary, as if expecting to have to guard his precious beast, which stood with watery eyes munching hay. Raktambar exchanged greetings with the old man, told him they were only staying the night and would not bother the elephant. This put the old man’s mind at rest. He went back to stirring some liquid in a pot over a fire, completely absorbed by the task of thickening his soup.

  Since Raktambar had to shout at the old man to get him to hear, they supposed him deaf.

  ‘Well, we’re here,’ said Jack.

  Wynter said, ‘Why don’t we join this lot instead? Look at ’em. There’s thousands of the bastards. Let’s swap over. We could be on the winnin’ side for once.’

  ‘That’s too close to the truth to be humorous,’ said Jack. ‘I would ask you to keep your suggestions to yourself, Wynter.’

  Jack could see the silhouettes of guns against the fading sky. He wanted a closer look at those field weapons, though he knew he would have to wait until dark to do so. In the meantime he could make a note of their number. The snouts of the cannons were visible between the sets of two spoked wheels. Jack counted thirty from his position out on the edge of the army. Khan Bahadar Khan’s soldiers had lined them up neatly along a ridge, with exactly five yards between each, as if expecting to give a birthday parade salute to Queen Victoria in the morning. British Army training was a difficult habit to throw off, even for rebels who professed to hate their old masters. There was the gleam of old bronze in the dying sunlight: a mellow light that leapt from barrel to barrel as the day went down.

  ‘I’d like to spike a few of those,’ Jack muttered, ‘but I suppose that would be too much to ask.’

  ‘Damn right, sir,’ said Wynter. ‘We need to get back.’

  ‘Unfortunately we do, or our information will die with us.’

  When the last of the light had drained from the sky Jack and Raktambar went on the prowl, leaving Wynter to look after the horses. Jack had done this sort of thing before and found his private missing when he returned from patrols, but this time Wynter had remained put. He was still there, albeit very nervous, when Jack and Raktambar returned. The pair had simply wandered through the encampments, arousing no suspicions since they were dressed similarly to the rebels and they covered the lower half of their faces, as if to escape the effects of smoke and dust. Thus they were able to walk around unmolested, with Raktambar fielding any casual questions or returning greetings. Jack’s Hindi and Urdu were up to it, but he knew it was best to keep his mouth shut in case he made a tiny mistake.

  ‘Well?’ asked Wynter. ‘You goin’ to tell me or not?’

  ‘In good time,’ growled the lieutenant. Both knew the information had to be shared as quickly as possible, in case they were suddenly discovered. If Raktambar and Crossman were killed or captured, and Wynter survived, it would be up to him to pass on the information to General Campbell. This was not an outfit in which the officer kept things close to his chest, as in a normal unit. Espionage only worked on a share-all basis. The figures and disposition of the foe had to get back to be of any use at all.

  Later, Jack Crossman briefed Wynter on what he and Raktambar had learned during their walkabout. They spent the evening counting fires and using the average number of men who might use a fire to calculate roughly the total number of troops. They had walked through the cavalry lines and had noted the number of corrals and the number of horses to each corral. They had strolled the edge of the town and had seen the barracks where the officers were billeted,
and had come up with a total there too. By the time they walked back to their bivouacs by the mahout’s hut, they had a reasonably good impression of the enemy’s strength.

  The following morning, before the dawn came up, they rode back towards Campbell’s advancing column. This time they avoided the village which the few rebels were holding, though Raktambar wanted to charge in and take them on. These mutineers had dented the Rajput’s honour by forcing him to run and he was desperate to repair the damage. Jack had to remind the Rajput that this was not the priority: that they needed to get the intelligence to General Campbell. Happily his bodyguard saw the sense in this, though he had had a fleeting thought that he might ride in alone.

  On arrival back at the British camp, Jack made his way to the farmhouse which the general was temporarily occupying. Outside was a knot of cavalry officers talking with staff officers. Jack heard the phrase, ‘Old Crawling-camel . . .’ which he knew referred to General Campbell.

  Too late Jack noticed that Captain Deighnton was one of the knot. The cavalry officer looked up and sneered as Lieutenant Jack Crossman passed by.

  ‘You still around?’ he murmured.

  ‘Get used to it, Captain,’ replied Jack. ‘I’m part of the furniture.’

  Deighnton turned back to his brother officers and there was some low talk which fortunately did not reach Jack’s ears.

  The general admitted him straight away.

  General Sir Colin Campbell was now grey-haired and leaner than when Jack had last seen him. He turned an intelligent face on the lieutenant and looked him up and down. Jack remained unmoving, wondering whether he was going to get a dressing down for being in Indian cottons, and prepared his defence. There were so many senior officers who were sticklers for protocol and would rather lose valuable time than have an officer appear before them out of uniform. Campbell, however, was not one of those.