Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  ‘I know you,’ said the older man. ‘I know your face.’

  ‘Perhaps you are mistaking me, sir, for my brother. Both my older brother and father served with the 93rd which you commanded. My brother was a lieutenant, my father a major. The Kirks?’

  ‘Ah, I remember Major Kirk, yes. And the younger one. But – no, now I recall quite clearly – ’ a triumphant note entered the general’s voice – ‘you were in the line, one of those from the hospital, a sergeant at the time if my memory serves me well. The thin red line at Balaclava.’ He cackled a little with laughter. ‘William Russell made us famous, did he not, with his colourful phrase in The Times? “The thin red streak tipped with a line of steel.”’

  Jack was absolutely flabbergasted. Campbell could only have seen him briefly as he stood in that line. To remember his face from such a short acquaintance was truly astonishing. Yet there was a story of Campbell recognizing an NCO’s voice during a charge in the Punjab some years earlier, thus turning the battle. It was true then, this fabulous memory.

  ‘If you could see your face,’ said Campbell, grinning, then taking a sip of something from a cup. ‘Well, laddie, your name is not Kirk.’

  Jack stiffened. ‘No, sir, my army name is Crossman.’

  ‘And the reason you reject your family name?’

  ‘I – I joined the army as a private, not wanting my father to purchase a commission for me. It’s – it’s family business, sir.’

  ‘Uncomfortable, eh? Domestic strife.’ The general waved a hand. ‘Dinna fash yersel’ laddie, Campbell isn’t my name either.’

  Jack’s eyes opened wider. ‘It’s not?’

  ‘No, I was born a Macliver and I too have been promoted without purchase in my time, so you see we have two things in common. However, I don’t come from a lord’s family, so I don’t know what goes on with boys growing up inside castles and mansions.’

  ‘My father is not a lord, sir. He’s only a lowly baronet.’

  ‘My father, sir,’ said Campbell, ‘was a Glasgow carpenter.’

  Jack did not know what to say to this. Sir Colin had a very distinguished army career; he had been elevated to the peerage and was highly respected. What could one say in response to such a revelation? However, the general let him off the hook, by requesting him to come and look at a map spread across a table, and to divulge what he had learned. Jack was only too willing to do so and went into army business mode.

  At the end of the briefing Campbell looked into Jack’s eyes and said, ‘Well done, Lieutenant. A good job. At least I can go in with my eyes open. The figures I’ve had so far seem to have been heavily inflated. I think I trust yours more. The plain on the approaches to the town are covered with small streams, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and one of them flows right across the south side of the town, but there are bridges intact.’

  ‘Good. Excellent.’ The general nodded hard. ‘Well, we’ll do what we can. I’d like to get my hands on Khan. That’d be a coup.’

  It would indeed, sir.’

  ‘Off you go then. I’ll pass on my high regard of your work to Colonel Hawke. See you on the battlefield.’

  A bolt of pleasure went through the lieutenant at these words.

  ‘Indeed, sir. I’ll be there.’

  Just before he turned to leave, Campbell nodded towards Jack’s missing hand.

  ‘Crimea? Or here?’

  ‘The Redan. Siege ladder, sir.’

  ‘Hmm, heavy things. You look as if you’ve been punctured a few times too. Bayonet or bullet?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Both, here and there.’

  ‘Me too,’ replied the general. ‘All right, off you go then.’

  Jack left the building. Thankfully Deighnton and his cronies had moved on and the landscape was happily clear of spurred and cockaded cavalry officers. Jack joined some infantry officers in the mess tent. There he had drink or two, before going back to see his own men. He briefed King, ruffled Sajan’s hair, commended Wynter on his first operation, and told Gwilliams to go and get himself a brandy or two.

  ‘You know where to find it, if anyone does. Not too much, mind. We’ll be fighting soon.’

  ‘You know me, Lieutenant. I always mix milk with mine.’

  Jack winced at the thought of this concoction.

  ‘Take Wynter with you. Get him to tell you about his emulation of Xenophon’s march of the ten thousand across Asia.’

  ‘Eh?’ growled Wynter. ‘He’s not goin’ to come the grand scholar with me again, is he?’

  Gwilliams licked his lips and prepared to deliver sermons on Ancient Roman and Greek history. He was stopped by Jack’s next statement.

  ‘Wynter came here overland,’ explained the lieutenant to his corporal. ‘A feat not unlike that of our old Greek general’s.’

  ‘This I’ve got to hear,’ said Gwilliams. ‘Come on, Wynter, let’s go and burn our bellies with some o’ that rot gut they call brandy.’

  Captain Deighnton had ordered his servant to follow the Crossman group after they had left to spy on Khan. The servant had witnessed the small skirmish in the village where the rebel was shot dead. Deighnton had told his man to gather as much detail as he could on the movements and actions of the group. So, unknown to the lieutenant, Jack and his spies were themselves being spied upon. It was not difficult for the servant to carry out his master’s wishes, being an Indian who could melt into the landscape. However, the servant’s mind was not altogether in accordance with his master’s and when he reported back he chose to include whatever material as he thought fit.

  Having nothing incriminating to add to his portfolio on Crossman, Deighnton made it his business to keep a watch on him constantly, even in camp. He knew, for instance, that Crossman and Campbell had hit it off, having served together at a momentous battle in the Crimea. That made it difficult for the captain. He decided to stay his hand until General Campbell was no longer around and some other officer was in command.

  The following day they were on the march, across that blistering flat landscape which the Ganges often lovingly covered with the folds of its floodwaters. There were many hawks in the sky, which drew the attention of the soldiers. The raptors fell on prey right before the troopers’ eyes. They took it to be a good omen. They were the hawks, the enemy, the quarry in the grasses. So they believed. The truth was that a great column like theirs, marching over the countryside, scattered game and birds alike with their heavy tread. There were trumpeting elephants trundling along with guns and supply wagons, thumping the ground with their large feet. There were oxen, horses, camels and other domestic stock, not to mention the feet of thousands of tramping men, drumming the hollow-sounding earth, shaking the world with their heavy armaments and their big boots.

  Jack Crossman and his men rode in the vanguard of the column. Wynter’s mount made him feel very important. In the infantry regiments only majors and above rode horses, so he felt he was rather superior to the lowly lieutenants and captains of foot. Every so often he was brought down to earth by the man he called ‘that bloody mapper’. Sergeant King did not like this new member of the team. Quite rightly he saw in Wynter a slacker, a waster, a conniving scoundrel, and the sergeant was not going to stand idly by while the army was abused. Once he even clipped Wynter behind the ear with the flat of his hand, when the private dropped back too far behind, which incensed his victim.

  ‘I’ve been through a war, I have,’ cried Wynter, out of earshot of the bloody mapper. ‘I’m entitled to respect. I’ve been a sergeant, oh, yes, I’ve been there. An’ I was tough and fair, but not a bloody bully, like that sod of a sergeant. I treated my men with some respect . . .’

  Sajan did not like hearing his father insulted. ‘You are a bad man, sahib,’ said the youngster, waving a finger in Wynter’s face. ‘If you were one of my soldiers, I would have you whipped.’

  ‘Oh, you would, would you? An’ who the bloody hell are you?’ said Wynter, snorting indignantly. ‘Bloody kids tellin’ me what to
do now. What are you doin’ up ’ere with us, anyways? You’ll be lucky if you don’t get my boot up your backside, you little kaffir.’

  ‘You are a very ignorant man, sir. It is you who are the kaffir, not me. A kaffir is a Christian, which is you.’

  Wynter tried to rescue his self-esteem with a word he had heard that morning from an Irish corporal. ‘I meant to say khalassi.’

  Sajan laughed. ‘That means camp follower. Yes, that is precisely what I am, so it is no insult.’

  ‘Where’d you get that horse from, anyway? You shouldn’t be up here with the men. You should be back with the women in the baggage train. You should be in the nursery van.’

  ‘My father gave me this horse. The same man you insulted. It will be necessary for my honour to slit your throat while you are sleeping if you continue to abuse him. I was raised by the Thagi. They taught me how to kill a man who is sleeping soundly, as you did last night, when you were full of brandy.’ Sajan nodded his sage young head. ‘Think about that, sir, while you are snoring like a pig in your bed.’

  Wynter eyed the young Indian boy with some alarm. It was true he had to sleep within the vicinity of this child of Satan and he believed that kids out here did not give a damn for their masters and betters. He thought that Sajan would poison the hand that fed him if he felt he could get away with it.

  Wynter rode up to Gwilliams. ‘What’s a Thagi?’ he asked.

  ‘We call ’em thugs,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘They’re a roadside cult that prey on travellers. They throttle their victims or cut their throats. You don’t want to run into any of those bastards. They’ve got no respect for the likes of you or me. Cut you off in your prime, they will.’

  Wynter went back to Sajan. ‘Look, kid, you don’t understand. In the army it’s right and proper for a private to curse his sergeant. It’s accepted. That’s the way we let off steam, you see. Sergeants know this and they don’t take offence, unless it’s to their face, of course, then they call it insolence. I don’t mean no harm, really. It’s just the British way.’

  Sajan was having none of it. ‘Sahib, you are a stinking fish.’

  Wynter began to get angry. ‘Now, look . . .’

  ‘You will stay away from me,’ said Sajan, spurring his horse.

  The private was left to fume. He felt the whole world was against him. He could not even voice his disgust about sergeants now! That wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right. It was against tradition. It was almost enough to make a man go back to his regiment and do some proper soldiering. But then, when he thought about it, he liked being a member of a special group. He liked to feel important. And he was good at it. Hadn’t he saved the lieutenant’s life at least once back there in the Crimea? He was good at this job and he wasn’t going to be chased out of it by a ten-year-old punkah wallah. If King got killed, which he well might during this campaign, he would wallop that kid until he begged for mercy. But then Crossman and Gwilliams would have to be out of the way too, and that bloody Rajput, Raktambar. The whole world was against him, that was the fact of the matter.

  The combined force reached Faridpur on the fourth of May. Faridpur was only a day’s march from Bareilly. Here Campbell paused to take stock. Gwilliams and Jack rode out that evening to inspect the defences of the rather loosely built town. They found that Khan Bahadur Khan had set up solid defences outside the pale of the dwellings. The guns set up on the sandbanks were still in the same neat positions. The cavalry were in their place on the flanks, while the second line of infantry lay back in the protection of the building, within the suburbs of the scattered township. Jack returned to make his report and then prepared his own men for the coming fight.

  ‘This is not going to be easy,’ he told King, Gwilliams, Raktambar and Wynter. ‘I have General Campbell’s permission for us to remain on horseback, but we must stay out of the way of the infantry, and of course the cavalry. This is entirely unprecedented so don’t shame me by abusing the privilege. We’re to keep watch for any breakaway factions and note which way they run. Pursue them if you feel it necessary, but obviously don’t catch up with them or engage them, because you’ll be unprotected. We’re battlefield observers, there to keep account of any retreat. These rebel leaders have a habit of vanishing once their troops look like being overrun. This time it’s hoped that observers like us can monitor the situation and keep track of which way Khan goes, should he try to skip.’

  ‘I will observe too,’ said Sajan. ‘I have good eyes.’

  ‘You do indeed have excellent eyes,’ replied Jack, ‘but I’m afraid you will be in the rear with the baggage train, young man. We need no distractions.’

  ‘Sahib,’ protested the youngster, ‘I am almost a man!’

  ‘Almost, but not quite.’ He tried to soften the blow. ‘Should your father fall in the coming fight, you must be alive to avenge him.’

  ‘In order to do that I must see who kills him,’ argued Sajan. ‘I must be there in the front to bear witness.’

  King said firmly, ‘You will stay at the rear. You have been ordered by your commanding officer. It is not a soldier’s duty to argue, but to obey. Isn’t that so, Raktambar?’

  ‘It is indeed so. Boy, do as you’re told.’

  Sajan hung his head in a sulk, but knew he was going to get nowhere in this argument, so dropped it.

  Early the following morning, before the heat of the day gripped windpipes in its burning fingers, General Sir Colin Campbell’s forces marched on Bareilly. The advance parties encountered cavalry but by six o’clock Campbell’s force was formed into two lines ready for the attack. There were of course the Highland regiments at the fore, supported by Punjab Rifles and a Baluch battalion. Horse artillery and cavalry were naturally guarding the flanks, but there was a battery in the centre. The remainder of the force formed the second line, protecting the siege-train and baggage detail, where Sajan was located with other camp followers.

  At seven o’clock General Campbell gave the order to advance. He was a general who was highly thought of by his troops. Time and time again he had proved his worth against superior odds and had come out victorious. His men knew his reputation, many had served under him in other battles, and they were entirely confident of victory. His courage was renowned, having stood in front of the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders and issuing that now immortal command when faced by the Russian cavalry at Balaclava: ‘There is no retreat from here, men! You must die where you stand!’

  Artillery fire answered the advance, the round shot falling amongst the British troops, but not seriously impeding them. On seeing the resolute line still coming towards them, the rebels abandoned their guns and fell back to the edge of the town. The British, Sikh, Baluch and Punjabi skirmishers now splashed through the stream and over the bridges. Artillery began to pound the enemy defences. While this bombardment continued, the whole of the British force crossed the stream and lined up ready to take the town.

  Jack was at that moment acting as a courier, having been grabbed by a senior officer on his way past, and asked to carry a message to a colonel in the front line. Just as he reached the colonel, there was a counter-attack by Khan’s forces. Almost a thousand matchlock men from within the confines of the dwellings opened fire with a tremendous volley, killing Sikh and British skirmishers. At the same time there was a ferocious charge made by over three hundred Rohilla Ghazis: fanatical holy warriors who cared nothing for death so long as they killed at least one of the enemy, ensuring their entry into heaven. The Ghazis carried small round shields and wielded only tulwar swords, but their attack was made in white-hot fury and was difficult to stop. The 93rd closed ranks and bayoneted many of them. The 42nd were a little slower to react to these fierce warriors in green turbans and cummerbunds, their sacred gold rings bearing Koran texts flashing in the sunlight. The attackers threw themselves full length forward, underneath the line of bayonets, and slashed at the legs of the British soldiers.

  Jack was close to the front line when three of the Ghazis brok
e through, slashing this way and that, cutting at their enemy with their razor-sharp sabres. Soldiers of the Company were harvested like wheatstalks. Some just panicked and ran, and were hacked in the back. Then more Ghazis breached the line. Heads rolled. Skulls were split in two. Legs and arms lopped like sapling trees. The Ghazis were terrifying, with their mad rolling eyes and their high-pitched screams. Their sword strokes came in flurries, slashing this way and that.

  ‘Bismallah,’ a big Ghazi screamed, leaping from ground level to the back of Jack Crossman’s horse. ‘Allah! Din! Din!’

  Instinctively, Jack’s crippled arm went up to protect his head and he managed to ward off a death blow. The Ghazi grabbed his collar and the lieutenant was wrenched backwards. Jack and his assailant fell from the horse’s back on to the hard-baked ground. Jack felt the wind knocked from his body, but he continued to struggle with his attacker, trying to tangle himself with the Ghazi’s flailing arms to prevent him from using his weapon. He felt a stinging blow above his eye, rendered by the man’s heavy gold ring, and instantly realized the Ghazi had lost his sword in the fall. He punched back with his good hand: a blow which merely glanced off the man’s shoulder. They rolled in the dust, the Ghazi frantic to kill him and Jack becoming a punchbag for the blows that rained on his head and body.

  The Ghazi was a blizzard of fierce energy, as lithe and as slippery as a cat, impossible to stop or contain except by dealing a mortal blow. He was kicking with bare feet at Jack’s groin and thighs, scratching with his long nails. Suddenly there was a knife in the Ghazi’s right hand. Jack managed to grip the man’s wrist. This left him punching with his stump, rather than with a fist, which was most ineffectual. He was vaguely aware that all around him others were having to deal with Ghazis creating havoc despite their slim numbers. They were frenetic in their attacks, as determined as the ancient berserkers they resembled. Even bullets, unless in the heart or head, only seemed to stun them for a second. On they came, cutting down infantry with their tulwars, dragging officers from their horses.