Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  It was with some disappointment that King heard English accents one night, passing below the tower. He went to the parapet and hissed down into the darkness, ‘Sir, up here!’

  Wynter’s voice came back up, ‘Who the devil is that?’

  Then Crossman’s voice said, ‘Who do think, you idiot? King, where are you?’

  ‘In the tower, sir. We’ll come down.’

  Sajan was roused and the pair of them gathered their materials together before joining the group below. There was a reunion, not so much joyous as pleasant. Then the party was on its way again, a forced march heading towards the Indian border. It seemed necessary to Jack to get out of Chinese territory as soon as possible. They reached India skirting the border with Nepal, which was also a dangerous place for foreigners. Once back on the Indian plains they felt a little safer, and camped for two days, where they rested, bathed and took stock of their adventure.

  Hilversum was able for the first time to inspect his handguns. Upon opening his bag he was surprised to find an intruder in there.

  ‘What’s this? Not one of mine.’

  Jack saw it was his five-shot Tranter revolver, with its unusual trigger cocking device. ‘No, that belongs to me. It was taken from me when I was captured. The sepoys must have put it in your bag.’

  Hilversum nodded, handing it over to the lieutenant.

  ‘Now, let me show you this,’ said the Dutchman. ‘You spoke about being in a duel recently? And missing your target? This, sir, is a duelling pistol no self-respecting officer should be without.’

  He unwrapped a piece of velvet cloth. Inside was a rather plain-looking handgun. But Jack could see that it was a finely crafted weapon, even without fancy embellishments. There was a silver butt cap with a brass ball, either for attaching a lanyard or for balance. But apart from these the walnut stock was free of frivolous decorations. Jack picked it up and felt its balance. It fitted comfortably and snugly in his fist.

  ‘What’s so effective about this weapon?’ he asked Hilversum, as others crowded round to look at the weapon. ‘Does it shoot straight?’

  ‘Not only is it accurate to the thickness of a shadow,’ replied the Dutchman, ‘it will take a man’s arm off. The calibre, sir, is .70. If you take this weapon, for example, or this – also both single-shot pistols – the calibres are .32 and .42 respectively. They are the norm. This beautiful killer was made by Andrew Wurfflein of Philadelphia in the Americas. Plane back action lock, single-set trigger with a guard spur. There is a vacant silver name escutcheon at the wrist. It should bear your name, Lieutenant.’

  Jack blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, this is a gift for saving my life. If you ever have to fight your man again, this weapon will be your saviour. Let me show you . . .’ He took the pistol back and proceeded to load it with the rammer. ‘This particular model normally has an eight-inch-long barrel, but this one is a twelve-inch – it has a secondary use as a sharpshooter’s pistol. It will kill at a distance. There, it’s ready. Would you like to fire it?’

  ‘After dinner, thank you. We must eat first. However, I do thank you for such a generous gift.’

  Hilversum waved this away. ‘My life is worth far more.’

  Wynter pushed forward. ‘Don’t we get no gift neither? We was there too, helping save your life.’

  ‘These are all single-shot pistols, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I an’t fussy. What’s that little ’un, there?’

  Hilversum looked. ‘That? That, my lean hungry friend, is the answer to a gentleman’s ruin.’

  ‘Meanin’?’

  ‘Meaning if you were a gentleman – Lord Such-and-such or Earl So-and-so – and had gambled away the family estates, that pistol would be your salvation. You would sit at your desk, take infinite pains in loading and priming the weapon under the disapproving gaze of your pater’s last portrait, throw back one final glass of the reserve brandy, place the barrel to your temple – and voilà – splatter your brains all over the blotter.’

  ‘I’ll have that ’un, then.’

  An exasperated King said, ‘But Wynter, you don’t have any estates to lose.’

  Wynter was slightly indignant. ‘That don’t mean I’m no better’n a lord. I’m as good as anybody with this ’ere pistol in me pocket.’

  He took it, wrapped it in a filthy handkerchief, and put it away within the folds of his clothes. In his own eyes Wynter had now raised himself to the level of an upper class gentleman, having in his possession the means to dispose of himself should he bring the family name into disrepute. Thereafter, when he sat down to cards or dice with the lads, he would always place the pistol on the table, ready to do the right thing should he lose all on the turn of a card. Wynter was a proud man, so he told himself. If earls and whatnot could take the noble way out, so could he. No coward, Wynter.

  Raktambar declined to choose a weapon, but Gwilliams took the opportunity of owning an Allen and Wheelock .32 single-shot pistol with a spur trigger and chequered hammer.

  ‘There we are then,’ said Hilversum. ‘All equipped to deal with any emergency duel – or otherwise. Now, have any of you gentlemen the means of a smoke?’

  Gwilliams produced a foul-looking cigar which the Dutchman wisely declined, but he borrowed a clay pipe from Sergeant King who carried several. To Jack’s delight and contentment, King had also brought with him Jack’s long curved-stemmed Turkish chibouque, which he happily stuffed with King’s tobacco and sat puffing for a good long half hour. Then came the call to dinner, which King had prepared. They sat on their haunches to eat, having released the two prisoners on oath, so that they could also be fed. Raktambar had prepared chapatis for the two sepoys, stuffed with wild onions. The halvidar and sepoy seemed grateful enough.

  Halfway through the meal, a shout went up from King.

  ‘Hey! They’ve bolted!’

  Jack looked up to see his two prisoners several hundred yards away, running hell for leather towards the edge of a forest. He knew that if they ever reached those trees the pair would be lost to him.

  ‘Gwilliams, Wynter.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ cried Wynter, his mouth full of food, but he jumped to his feet and he and the corporal set out after the two runaways.

  Nearing the trees, the havildar turned and made a derogatory gesture with his hand, thus incensing Jack.

  ‘Damn his eyes,’ he said exasperated. ‘We should have hung them.’

  It was a meaningless expression of regret. Jack Crossman was not a hanging man. He felt that though it was cowardly, he preferred such justice to be left to the authorities, not really having the stomach for summary executions. It was one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle: quite another to do so on a cold dawn morning with one’s soul lying quiet and peaceful.

  The sepoy reached the forest and entered, with the havildar close on his heels.

  An explosion by Jack’s ear made him jump sideways and clutch his head for a moment. His ears rang with the sound. In the distance the havildar threw out his arms and shot forward, as if kicked in the back by a mule. He fell in the grasses, out of sight, and did not rise. Jack blinked away some gunsmoke as Wynter and Gwilliams reached the fallen man. They looked down, then they looked back. Gwilliams waved his arms, a signal Jack failed to interpret. The lieutenant then turned to stare at the Dutchman.

  Hilversum was still maintaining the half-sideways pose of a shooter, feet shoulder-width apart, right arm out straight, weapon an extension of the wrist, one eye still closed, the aiming eye narrowed. In his fist, still smoking, he held Jack’s new gift of the single-shot pistol.

  Hilversum lowered the weapon slowly to his side and turned to smile at Crossman.

  ‘Accurate? Very. Did you see that? It must be three-hundred yards. Have you ever known a pistol to be so sure at such a distance?’

  ‘Did I order you to kill him?’ cried Jack. For some reason unknown even to himself he was angry with the Dutchman.

  Hilversum, the smile gone, t
urned cold grey eyes on Jack. ‘I need no order. That pig was ready to kill me without a thought, just as he killed one of his own men. Why do you care? He would have done the same to you. Please get things into perspective, Lieutenant. That man was a rebel and a murderer. I had no other choice but to do what should have been done earlier. As it is, the fat one got away. The heart must have been bursting in his chest . . .’

  Before Jack could make an answer Gwilliams and Wynter arrived back. Wynter went straight to the food again and began chomping.

  Gwilliams said, ‘Hole between his shoulder blades as big as my fist.’

  ‘As I said,’ Hilversum remarked, back to his cheery mode again, ‘it would take the head off a pi-dog.’

  No more was said of the incident. Jack was puzzled by his own outburst. Of course Hilversum had been within his rights to shoot an escaping prisoner, especially a man who might murder again. Jack himself should have grabbed a rifle and carried out the deed. Yet he felt a deep anger about all this killing. He was a soldier, sure, and soldiers are required to kill the enemy, but death should not be the answer to all and every problem encountered by soldiering. There had been butchery enough in this uprising and someone, somewhere, had to call a halt. You could not wade around in blood for ever and blame the other side for atrocities. If it continued in this way the Ganges would flow pink and foul for ever.

  Gwilliams came to him as he brooded by the campfire.

  ‘Sir, I know what you’re thinkin’ – but he asked for it.’

  Jack, surprised, said, ‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I know the look. But we ain’t finished yet, here in this mess. Right or wrong we’ve got to do our duty.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I feel some philosophy coming my way.’

  Gwilliams, his auburn beard glinting in the firelight, grinned.

  ‘Them Spartans was the ones for battle. Couldn’t walk off the field if there was even one enemy warrior left standin’. I recall a story that there was once a battle fought to a standstill and two of ’em left – a Spartan and one of the enemy. They agreed to call it a draw. That Spartan went home and got thunder from his own wife and relations. Shame, they cried. They said he should’ve died rather’n walk off the field. How’s that for duty?’

  ‘I’m a terrible mixture of English, Scottish and probably one or two others, further back, but all I can say is – I’m glad I’m not a Spartan.’

  ‘Me too,’ said the corporal with a smile. ‘You got to have some choice in your own fate, I say. Goddam generals want to preach everythin’ to you, but whether a man chooses to stay and die for nuthin’ – why, that’s up to him.’

  Five

  The following morning Rudi Hilversum came to Jack and announced he was parting company.

  ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ asked Jack. ‘The country is still in turmoil, you know. A lone civilian will be prey to every dacoit and badmash on the road. I know you can shoot, I’ve been witness to that, but one man alone? You’d be better to stick with us for a few more miles – at least until we reach some European outpost, if not a town.’

  Hilversum shook his head. ‘I’ll take my chances, Lieutenant.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘It just remains for me to thank you again, for coming back. I can’t say I’d have done it for you, because I probably wouldn’t have. That’s me, I’m afraid. If I’d had any honour, I’d be in the army, I suppose. As it is, I just want to make money. I’d as soon sell a gun to a rebel sepoy as to an officer of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, bless her buxom bottom.’

  Jack was more shocked by the jibe at his revered monarch than he was by the idea of selling arms to mutineers, but he said nothing, gripping the hand that was proffered and wishing the owner well. They parted at the fork of a dusty road, Hilversum heading west, towards Delhi, Jack and his men continuing south, hoping to hook up with a main column again. At one point they were knee deep in a field of flowers. The blooms brushed against their legs and left pollen marks on skin and clothes. Sajan picked the heads off one or two, until he was admonished by Raktambar.

  Wynter surveyed the white-to-purple flowers with distaste.

  ‘What’s these ’uns, then? Cattle fodder?’

  Gwilliams laughed.

  King said, ‘What’s to laugh at, Corporal?’

  Jack intervened. ‘These are opium poppies, Sergeant.’

  Apart from his fanatical mapmaking, King had very little interest in much else. An innocent abroad. ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘This is a field of dreams. Opium is a narcotic. You’ve heard of opium, surely? It’s the basis of such medicines as laudanum.’

  Jack spoke hesitantly. In the Crimea he had been wounded and ill enough to have had to rely on laudanum for a time. He remembered being addicted to it and even now he was involuntarily licking his lips. A habit hard to break.

  ‘The Chinese soldiers sometimes smoke it,’ said Wynter. ‘Lord, you oughta see ’em lying around lookin’ like they was floating on clouds or somethin’.’

  ‘In America too – mostly the workers on the railways,’ confirmed Gwilliams. ‘Had a taster myself once, but whiskey beats it in my opinion. There’s nothin’ so particular to the tongue as the amber liquid. I reckon high spirits is superior to damn funny dreams every time.’

  They were heading down to Bareilly now, where they had left Campbell’s column. Sergeant King was amazed how peaceful and ordinary the countryside looked. It was a stifling hot day, it was true, and any sun-fearing creature who could find shade was in it, but there was no sign of the chaos into which India had been plunged this last year. Blood had flowed, both men and women of various races had been hacked to death or blown to bits in their thousands, yet the landscape showed none of this carnage.

  There were women in billowing saris of pastel shades drifting here and there. Men stood and stared or lay on rattan beds outside their hovels. Elephants and camels watched the world through narrow eyes as they chewed whatever was within reach. Curs slunk by looking hopefully at the group, only to flop in a shadow when nothing was forthcoming. On the horizon, above the high trees, cumulous was gathering in grey towers. There were no running crowds screaming for revenge, no thunder of the captains urging their troops towards another slaughter. Just a world of slow-flowing rivers, the occasional astonishing foliage and sleepy-looking inhabitants.

  ‘What’s war for, anyhow?’ he said to himself, but unfortunately was heard by Private Wynter.

  ‘Well, it’s the proper state of affairs, an’t it?’ Wynter replied. ‘What work for soldiers, without no war?’

  King, who envisaged a perfect world full of army mapmakers – or their equivalent craftsmen – had no answer for this. The army had given him his trade and he was not going to say nay to that.

  Raktambar suddenly cried out. ‘East!’

  Everyone dropped to the ground below the level of the poppies.

  ‘What have you seen?’ whispered Jack to his Rajput aide.

  ‘Soldiers on horseback.’

  ‘Ours or theirs?’

  ‘Too far away.’

  Jack waited for a while, then lifted his head slowly to peer out. He could see the riders now, in the far distance. They looked like British cavalry but he couldn’t be sure. About twenty-five of them. On request King passed him a spy-glass and when he looked again he could see that they consisted of an officer with HM troopers.

  Jack stood up and waved his arms. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Over here! Queen’s Army!’ A hot wind was blowing from the east, carrying his words towards the west in the opposite direction to the troopers. The officer in charge turned his mount and actually seemed to see Jack waving, but of course then Jack realized he was dressed in rags and looked more like a Gujar than a soldier. No cavalry worth its salt was going to ride half a mile to investigate the waving of a dubious-looking man in filthy cottons.

  ‘Up you get, they’ve gone,’ he said to his men, as the colourful troopers disappeared behind a ridge. ‘Sajan, fill the water bottles
from that stream and let’s be on our way again.’

  He was not too upset, since they were only a day or so away from Bareilly now, where he was sure there would be a British post.

  They reached Bareilly two days later. The first people to see them walking into camp were Silvia and Delia Flemming. The barefooted girls came running towards Jack, their dresses flying in the breeze. Their faces, framed by curtains of long black hair, were full of delight.

  ‘Oh, my captain,’ cried Silvia, her black eyes flashing, ‘you have returned safe and sound to me.’

  This sentence was repeated word-for-word by her sister, Delia, in the same melodramatic tones. Their yells brought their father to the door of his billet, followed by his Punjabi wife. The corporal, a stocky little man with grizzled hair, stood arms akimbo. His small-stemmed pipe was sticking out of his mouth and he was puffing furiously. Clearly this show of affection from his daughters did not please him. He called them back. They ignored him, clustering around Jack as if there were ten of them, rather than two.

  ‘Oh, your clothes are so dirty,’ Silvia said, trying to take off Jack’s kurta, presumably in order to wash it.

  ‘So dirty,’ repeated Delia, grasping a sleeve.

  Jack tried, ineffectively, to wave the pair away. They were such a nuisance to him, these girls – but like many men he could not bring himself to make them hate him. There was that spark of vanity in him which was fanned to a faint glow by their flattery. They were indeed beautiful young women. Forbidden fruit which he would never in a million years dream of picking, and of course he realized it was his reluctance to return their favours which drew them to him. He knew the moment he showed any interest in them he would scare them away. Yet he could not do that either, being at heart a man who could not show false feelings in order to deceive someone.

  Gwilliams stepped forward and grasped a slender wrist of each girl, pulling them away. ‘Leave the officer be, you vixens – ain’t you got no respect for authority?’