Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  King left the boy Sajan in the care of one of the camp followers and joined Jack, setting out north.

  ‘I hear General Coke has arrived,’ said King by way of conversation as they rode out. ‘When will the two forces join?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I imagine. Now, let’s find out where Khan has gone, and finish this bloody business for good.’

  Crossman and King drifted about a quarter of a mile apart in order to cover a larger amount of ground. They kept each other in sight. Signs of the evacuation of the town were all round the perimeter, the occupants having scattered every which way in the beginning. What Jack’s men were looking for was the rallying point and to then discover where the enemy had headed after that.

  The two searchers had only been riding about an hour when Jack saw King’s arm go up and wave to him. Jack urged his horse towards the sergeant. When they met up, King pointed to marks in the dust. Clearly a great number of people had gathered in this spot and had headed out towards the north-east. The pair had discovered Khan’s direction.

  King consulted a map which he opened and rested on the neck of his horse. ‘Pilibhit,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘That’s where he’s going, unless he veers off.’ He looked up and studied the landscape. ‘Nothing much beyond Pilibhit except the border of Nepal, and he won’t go in there.’

  ‘No. The King of Nepal wouldn’t view an incursion of that size very favourably. Khan won’t risk incensing the Nepalese. He’d be caught between two armies. I’ll wager he intends to rest at Pilibhit and then move on somewhere.’ Jack made a decision. ‘You must ride back, Sergeant King, and take the news to the general. I’ll continue towards Pilibhit to make sure Khan doesn’t sheer off somewhere along the road.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be better coming back with me, sir? Khan may leave some units along the road to protect his rear. You’re only one man . . .’

  ‘I think I know what I’m doing, Sergeant.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied King stiffly. ‘I shall inform the general.’

  He galloped his horse back the way they had come and Jack continued on at a slow and easy pace, his eyes keenly studying all horizons. It was just over thirty miles from Bareilly to Pilibhit and there was no sense in thundering ahead. A retreating army, dispirited and dull of mind, travels reasonably slowly. Jack didn’t actually want to catch up with them. He just wanted to follow at a distance and make sure they didn’t change direction.

  This he did for the next few hours. When evening came the trail was still heading the same way, towards Pilibhit. Jack decided that in the morning he would turn back towards Bareilly, having established that Khan was not going to tack in another direction. Riding during the dark hours was not impossible, but it was not a sensible option either. It was better to let his mount and himself rest, and ride back refreshed in the morning.

  After watering and feeding his horse, Jack did the same for himself, then he lay on a single blanket on the bare ground. He was a little concerned about cobras, but knew that although the cobra is an aggressive snake, mostly men were bitten when they trod on the creatures. If one should come he would be best to leave it to slide over or around his body, without disturbing it. The idea made him shudder with apprehension, but in India snakes, scorpions and huge spiders were a fact of life. You could spend your whole time worrying about encounters with them, if you let yourself. Better to adopt a casual attitude towards wildlife and hope for the best.

  He awoke without being molested just as the sun was rising.

  The first thing he noticed was the muzzle of a musket which was pointing at his face from about six inches away.

  ‘Meri samajh men nahin aaya!’ he said.

  ‘No, no – ’ a half-uniformed sepoy waved a finger in his face and smiled – ‘you are an Englishman – please do not insult my intelligence.’

  Jack went up on to his elbows and stared at a ring of men standing round him. Clearly they were rebels. They had hold of his horse – the treacherous beast had simply changed sides in the night – and had removed his weapons from his side.

  ‘You are our prisoner, sir, and will remain so.’

  The man who spoke to him was badly scarred about the face: blade cuts by the look of them. But they were old scars, obviously not obtained in the recent uprising. He was a big fellow, not young, with a neat silver-edged haircut. On his tunic were the stripes of a havildar, a sergeant in the Indian Army, now dirty and spotted with black blood. Indeed he did not look at all stupid and Jack was not going to ‘insult his intelligence’ any further.

  ‘Well, get it over with,’ growled Jack testily. He was surprised to find he was not afraid. ‘Shoot, damn it.’

  The havildar waved a finger again.

  ‘No, no, sir. You are not understanding me. We have no wish to kill you. Not yet. You are our hostage, sir, and will remain so.’

  ‘Hostage?’ Jack felt hopeful. It was then he noticed that they had another prisoner, a westerner like himself, in a frill-fronted shirt and tight black pants. The man had his hands tied behind his back and was held by two men who gripped him firmly. Jack ignored the other man and continued speaking to his captor. ‘You are taking me to Khan?’

  ‘Not really, sir. By mutual agreement we have left the army of Bahadur Khan and are now free men. But soon the British will begin to hunt us down. We shall go somewhere not to be found. If they catch up with us, then we will offer to kill you unless they leave us alone. That is our plan.’

  Deserters, Jack realized, and desperate ones by the look of them. They had first mutinied from the British Army and now had abandoned Bahadur Khan’s force. It was obvious they wouldn’t be welcomed by anyone, anywhere, and were heading for the gallows. They were a fated group of souls with nothing to lose, being little more than bandits now. Jack and the other prisoner had to be very careful not to set off any panic amongst this forlorn crew of ragged unhopefuls.

  ‘It sounds a good one to me,’ said the other captive, speaking for the first time. He was not an Englishman. Jack could hear a clipped accent which sounded Scandinavian to his ears. ‘I’d go along with a plan like that, wouldn’t you, sir?’

  The last remark was addressed to Jack.

  Jack nodded. He was forced to his feet by rebels and then, because of his missing hand, his arms were bound at the elbows rather than the wrists. His legs were left free, presumably so that he could walk. And walk he did, for the next few hours, while the rebels took turns to ride his horse. All this time he said nothing to the other captor, who had indeed tried to speak to Jack, but had been struck by a rifle butt for doing so. Jack was also hit for dragging his heels, which of course he did hoping they would be overtaken by his own men. Once he looked back in hope, but saw that no one was following them, not even at a great distance. Only a decrepit old camel, like a walking moth-eaten rug, plodded across the horizon.

  It was of some consolation to Jack that the rebels had told him the truth. They obviously were no longer part of the Khan army. They veered away from Pilibhit and seemed happy with open countryside. There were few delights out there. The occasional frangipani tree offered a relief from the boredom and they also passed the carcasses of bloated beasts being tussled over by buzzards, but for the most part the scene was uninteresting. They followed a watercourse towards the foothills of the Himalayas, skirting both Nepal and the various villages on the way. When midday came, with its head-hammering sun, Jack was ready to collapse. Fortunately, so were many of the rebels – Jack counted twenty-three of them – and there was a rest stop.

  He was propped against the trunk of an old tamarisk tree and his arms were untied so that he could give himself a drink.

  ‘If you run, we shall be forced to shoot you,’ he was told. The speaker had a reflective thought before adding, ‘If just one runs away, we will shoot the other one too. We will shoot you both together.’

  ‘Bound together in friendship,’ said the other prisoner, ‘whether we like it or not.’

  ‘Where are you taking us?�
�� Jack asked one of the more accessible rebels, a small chubby man of about twenty. ‘You’ve got far enough away from any pursuers to be able to let us go now.’

  Jack could speak Hindi and Urdu, but he did not want to let his captors know that, as he wanted to secretly follow their conversations. He had already heard one hard-faced character tell his companions that they ought to kill their prisoners before crossing the border into Chinese Tibet. However, another man had argued that they were all in just as much danger from the Chinese Emperor as they were from the British, since it was death for any foreigner found inside Chinese Tartary. This individual suggested they keep Jack and the other European alive and use them to bargain with, should the group be discovered by either Tibetans or Chinese. No conclusion had yet been reached and their fate still hung in the air.

  ‘No, no, sir,’ replied the man, answering Jack’s question. ‘You must stay with us until we are very, very safe.’ He looked into Jack’s eyes. ‘No harm will come to you. We wish no blood on our souls. You will be treated like proper sahibs.’ The little man grinned at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jack, pretending he was relieved. ‘I knew we were in the hands of real soldiers.’

  The other prisoner laughed out loud. ‘You gullible idiot. As soon as they don’t need us, they’ll blow off our heads. Isn’t that right, Fatty?’

  The portly sepoy shook his head. ‘No, no. No one wishes to kill you.’

  ‘What a lie,’ said the other man, still laughing. ‘What a big fat fib!’ He suddenly switched to becoming passionately angry with his captors. He began struggling with his bonds and kicking out at them with his feet. ‘If I could just . . . I’ll break your heads for you, you bastards. Call yourself men? I’ll take on any one of you! Just take these cords off and I’ll show you how real men fight. Two of you, no, three of you at once! Knives if you like. No, let’s duel like civilized men. Pistols. We’ll fight with pistols. Ten of you line up with your weapons. I’ll just have my single-shot pistol. I’ll put you all in your graves, I will. God give me strength . . .’

  He cursed and swore and struggled, telling the rebels he was going to gut them like fish once he got his hands free. Then, just as suddenly, he burst into tears and began blubbing like a babe. Globules of liquid streamed down his dirty face, leaving white tracks in their wake. He sobbed for at least twenty minutes while one or two tried to reassure him. Fatty repeated the hollow promises that he would not be harmed, but the captive shook his head and wept like a widow in mourning, saying he didn’t believe it and he knew he would be murdered soon.

  When they turned away from him in embarrassment, his face broke into a huge grin and he startled Jack by winking at him and nodding sagely.

  Then in a calm voice he called for tea, saying he wanted his afternoon chai and how long must a man wait for his refreshments?

  ‘You shall be my khidmargar when we get out of here,’ he told the man who brought him some tea. ‘My butler-waiter. But just for a while though, until I can make you into a Nazir, for anyone in my employ gets automatic promotion by the week. If you stay with me long enough we shall be sure to make you into a nawab, ruler of a province. How does that sound? Not bad for a tea-bringer, eh? One moment an abductor, the next a nawab. What, have you no ambition? Seize the day, fellow, make something of yourself! Forget these other ne’er-do-wells and strive for independence. You are your own master.’

  The man who gave him the tea smirked at him, as if he were some kind of maniac on a leash, then left him to sup the warm tea. Jack had his arms tied again, and this time his feet too, for good measure. Both he and the other captive were lashed to the tamarisk tree. Then most of the Indians fell asleep, leaving just two of their number awake, to keep watch. Jack and his companion were now able to exchange whispers without being kicked.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Jack, being the first to speak.

  ‘My name is Rudi Hilversum,’ came the reply. ‘I am originally from Amsterdam. I came to India as a boatswain on a clipper, but jumped ship to make something of myself. Now I deal in firearms. You see that black leather bag one of those fellows is carrying?’ He pointed at it with his chin. ‘Those are the pistols I have for sale. They were stolen from me and I shall take great pleasure in killing the pig who took them.’

  Jack was amused, despite their situation. ‘You think you’ll get out of this?’

  The Dutchman was a handsome dark-haired man of about thirty-five years. He had a two-inch scar on his right cheek-bone. Serious brown eyes regarded Jack. They were the eyes of an actor. They changed expression by the second.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘You have to believe that, don’t you? If I didn’t I would fall into a melancholic state and be good for nothing. Hey, how did you like my performance? What? It keeps them guessing, you see, if you pretend you’re half-mad. They don’t know what to do with me. It worries them to have this creature whose moods jump back and forth. You don’t have a smoke on you, do you? I would kill for a cigar or a pipeful of tobacco. I’ll pay you back later, once we’ve killed this rabble . . .’

  Jack shook his head. Perhaps his Dutch companion was half-mad. Jack could not help but admire his effervescent nature.

  He then asked Hilversum, ‘How is it you speak good English?’

  The Dutchman snorted. ‘English isn’t a difficult language. You should try Finnish. Or Cantonese. Do you know each word in Cantonese has nine meanings, all very different? Chinese dialects are tonal languages. You have to say the word in the right tone, or it means something completely different. The word tong for instance, when pronounced in a high falling pitch means “soup”, but in a low falling pitch means “sugar”. On the other hand, in Cantonese there are no tenses, no plurals and no articles. “Me go ship yesterday” is exactly what a Cantonese speaker would say in his own tongue. Who are you, by the way?’

  Jack had almost fallen asleep. ‘Lieutenant Jack Crossman, of the 88th Foot, a regiment raised in Connaught in Ireland.’ He had told the truth, not necessarily the right thing to do in such circumstances, but inventiveness had failed him.

  ‘I thought you Catholic Irish didn’t like the Protestant English?’

  ‘I’m not Irish. In any case, you can’t blame an entire nation for the actions of a few. There are those in England – and Scotland – who deserve to be hated by the Irish, but not the majority of the population. There are Catholics in England and Protestants in Ireland too.’

  ‘Well,’ said the other, ‘are you an Honourable East India Company man? Are you one of those warrior-clerks?’

  ‘No, I’m Queen’s Army, not Indian Army.’

  ‘You won’t get rich that way. It’s better to be a John Company man, then you rise quickly, fleece the natives, and build yourself an empire out here. Then you can go home when you’re fed up and buy a huge estate in the country, a townhouse in London and live like a king. I know a man who was just a Company writer ten years ago and now he’s a resident. Led a few border skirmishes, squeezed revenues from some unwilling tribes, rose from lieutenant to colonel in a few months. That’s the sort of career you should be chasing, not this Queen’s Army stuff. Have you no ambition?’

  Jack gritted his teeth. He was beginning to become exasperated with this Dutchman who ran off at the mouth all the time.

  ‘Not that kind of ambition. I’ll have you know I’m a baronet’s son and have no need of such an unsavoury career.’

  ‘Younger son, I’ll wager.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Ha, I thought so. Choice of two careers only. Army and Church. Too restless to be a pasty-faced pastor, so the only thing left open was to purchase a commission in the army. Did Daddy put up the money?’

  ‘I’ll have you know,’ spluttered Jack, ‘that I joined as a private and worked my way up through the ranks.’

  ‘And Daddy’s peerage rank had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. In fact my father tried to block my promotion. He did not approve, you see, of a
son with an iron will of his own.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. I’d have cut you off without a penny. What nonsense. Who gave you these idiotic principles? A mother, I suppose? They’re a woman’s work, principles like those.’

  ‘I swear if I ever get out of this,’ growled Jack, ‘I’ll plant you a facer so hard you’ll need a new nose.’

  ‘It’s no use getting frustrated with me,’ protested the indignant Dutchman, ‘it’s your mother you should be angry with.’

  At that moment one of the sepoy sentries came over and demanded that they stop talking. Both captors sat fuming silently until the rest of the rebels woke. Then they were on their way again. Towards the evening they approached a village. The rebels, with one or two badmashes amongst them, were heavily armed. Jack heard them talking in Hindi about raiding the village for supplies. One or two said they ought to kill any men they saw, but leave the women and children alone. The havildar who had first spoken to Jack was against any killing, he said, while he was in charge.

  ‘Why are you the leader?’ asked a scruffy-looking fellow with one eye and a hawkish nose. ‘There is no rank here now. You are not in the army any more.’

  ‘I am the leader because I am the most senior and also the most intelligent,’ replied the havildar, ‘which was why I was given my chevrons in the first place.’ He took a pistol from his belt. ‘Also I will punish you badly if you defy my authority. I have around me men from my regiment who are loyal to me. You are new to our company and I forgive you for not knowing this, but if you speak to me again like that I shall surely shoot out your one good eye and leave you either dead or blind.’

  The objector looked around him and saw that several of the sepoys were glaring at him. His head went down and he mumbled that he was sorry for his indiscretion and begged them to pardon his ignorance. However, if they were to eat they would have to raid the village, that much had to be true, and if the village defended itself, they would need to kill.