‘He is our charge,’ cried the girls together. ‘He is our captain.’
At that moment Corporal Flemming came over, vest collar and coatee unbuttoned, his bare head mussed. The corporal had been an East Anglian rustic before becoming a soldier and Norfolk men like to think their daughters angels. Angels these two may be from appearances, but little demons they were in character. Flemming took the stubby pipe out of his mouth and was indeed about to berate Jack for toying with his girls when Sergeant King beat him to the draw.
‘Corporal,’ King snapped, ‘keep these children of yours under control, if you please. You recognize the officer? Lieutenant Crossman of the 88th Connaught Rangers? These girls are a perfect nuisance and will not leave him alone. I realize there’s no harm in them, but it’s your responsibility to see they don’t bother officers in the performance of their duties.’
The corporal looked indignant and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. He folded his arms and glared defiantly at King.
‘And don’t give me your country looks, Corporal,’ King growled, ‘or you’ll feel the blunt edge of my fist on your chin.’
The corporal glanced at King’s fist and saw a formidable weapon: wisely he kept his peace, though not so his daughters.
‘You threaten our father!’ exclaimed Silvia. ‘He is our protector.’
‘Well, let him bloody-well protect you then,’ riposted King. ‘You’re a disgrace, both of you. Any daughter of mine would be brought up to be a polite and well-mannered girl, not a hoyden.’
Mrs Flemming rustled her sari noisily from the doorway of the billet and called out, ‘My daughters are respectable ladies.’
All this commotion brought someone to the door of the officers’ quarters. After a moment this person strode across the hard-packed earth to where the group were arguing.
‘What’s all this yelling and shouting?’ asked the man, an overweight major who blinked rapidly and a great deal. ‘Keep your peace, if you please.’ He turned to stare Wynter up and down. ‘Who are you people anyway? Are you the remains of Hodson’s men?’
Flemming and his daughters had wisely slipped quietly away, back to their billet.
Jack stepped forward. ‘Sir, I am Lieutenant Crossman, of the 88th. Could you direct me to a Major Lovelace? I have to report to him immediately.’
The major stared Jack in the eyes. ‘Major Lovelace? If he’s here I haven’t seen him, and I know who you are. You, sir, are under arrest. You’re the fellah Deighnton’s looking for – the deserter. Look at the state of you! You should be ashamed, sir, to be seen in that garb, in that state of filth. Are these your men? They’re under arrest too. You’re all under arrest. Guards?’ The last word was yelled, though no one answered it. After a moment the major swallowed his pride and said, ‘If you will accompany me, I shall take you to some quarters which you will be pleased to consider your prison until I can summon some sentries . . .’
‘This is preposterous,’ Jack snapped back at the major. ‘We are not deserters, sir, we are employed by Colonel Hawke and Major Lovelace – Queen’s Army – in the gathering of information. It is our job to go out as agents into the countryside and glean what we can of enemy troop movements, plans, and other vital facts which are no concern of yours. Is General Campbell here? He will vouch for me and my peloton. I might add we are exhausted, hungry and would like to wash. We’ve been out in the field for a good while.’
‘General Campbell has gone,’ replied the major, who looked as if he believed not a word of Jack’s defence. ‘Colonel Boothroyde is in charge here and I am his adjutant. I don’t know these people of whom you speak – their names mean nothing to me. Since I know everything that goes on around Bareilly, I would do – if it were the truth.’
‘Of course you don’t know them,’ replied an exasperated Lieutenant Crossman. ‘They’re concerned with intelligence. They keep a low profile, obviously. Look, is the correspondent William Russell still here? He knows me. Or Rupert Jarrard of the New York Banner?’ Jack looked towards the seemingly deserted streets of Bareilly, where only a chockra-boy lay asleep in the shade of a bullet-pitted wall. ‘There must be somebody here who knows me?’
‘Oh, there is,’ murmured the major, who had now seen a sergeant major and had motioned to him, ‘there’s Captain Deighnton, who is at this very minute out scouring the landscape for sight of you and your fellow deserters.’
Jack suddenly realized with a chill that the troopers he saw from the poppy field must have been Deighnton’s patrol. Having so obviously sown this story about defection Jack suspected the captain would not have taken prisoners. Jack had almost called down his own executioners on the heads of his men. Deighnton would have drilled those troopers – dragoons by the look of them – drilled them in the belief that they were hunting dangerous criminals. Or would he? The man seemed to wallow in the glory of the duel, so perhaps Jack was doing him an injustice? Perhaps it would have been enough to capture Jack and force him to duel? Who knew how the mind of a deviant like Deighnton actually worked.
‘Sarn Major,’ said O’Hay to the SNCO who was, incredibly, one of a single company of 88th, Jack’s regiment left behind when the rest marched out to join General Rose, ‘arrest these men.’
‘Sir!’ bawled the sergeant major, who turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Civilians, are they?’
Soldiers were then summoned by the sergeant major’s powerful lungs and Jack and his men, including Sajan and Raktambar, were led away.
‘Sarn Major,’ Jack asked, as that man posted sentries outside the door of the hut to which they had been confined, ‘who’s your IC?’
‘You British, is it?’ asked the sergeant major, peering into the faces of his prisoners.
‘Myself, the corporal here, and that private over there – we are all of your regiment.’
The sergeant major cocked his head to one side and after a few moments fired several questions – some of them in Erse, or Irish Gaelic – at Jack and his two rankers, the answers to which would only have been known to a Connaught Ranger. He was surprised when they answered them correctly, then recognized Wynter’s name as being one of those who had at some time brought disgrace upon the 88th, though only in the form of whore-house brawls and drunken escapades. Gwilliams’ accent threw him a little and he asked where in the world someone got a twisted tongue like his.
‘Boone’s Lick, Missouri,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘How about yourn?’
The officer’s name, finally dragged out of the sergeant major, was not familiar to Jack, and he began to despair. One could get hung out here in the middle of nowhere, now that law had broken down and death was an everyday occurrence. Men who have witnessed the dismembering of women and children and had seen natives blown from cannons are likely to be slightly hardened to death and to treat it as common-place. If he managed to convince someone he was indeed an officer in the British Army, he might get them court martialled, but even that was uncertain. Sajan and Raktambar might be set free, but that was unlikely too. Any excuse or none was good enough to execute an Indian after such massacres and fighting. Jack realized they were in deep trouble, though King kept fulminating.
The sergeant said, ‘All they’ve got to do is look in my pack and see I’ve got mapmaking equipment. People are allowed to go out and make maps for the army’s use, aren’t they? How do they think maps get made? You can’t do it sitting on your backside in a bloody tent.’ He grumbled angrily to the sentries who were actually too scared of their sergeant major to reply to these rants.
Jack, as an officer, was removed from the presence of his men, put under open arrest and conveyed to separate quarters, a bungalow that appeared internally untouched by the recent fighting. Outside though was a wide stretch of ground where the rebel sepoys had been camped and the open latrines had still not been filled in. Although there were no human bodies, there were still dead camels and elephants rotting in the sun. Even with the shutters closed the stink hugged every corner of the house.
A suba
ltern of the 95th came to see him, a reed-thin boy of about twenty years carrying a heavy Roman nose on his sharp face. This was Jack’s guard.
‘Told to look after you. Comfortable, old chap?’
‘Not really,’ replied Jack. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m about to be hauled up in front of your colonel. Could you have a basin or two of water sent in so that I can spruce myself up a bit?’ A thought came to Jack. ‘Listen, as you’re aware I’m in a bit of bother. I would feel very inferior going before the colonel in these rags. I wonder if you know any lieutenants in the 88th? There must be a couple of them around, with a whole company here. Any possibility of me borrowing a uniform? I’d feel more army in a uniform. In these cottons I’m very much the poor cousin.’
The young subaltern looked a bit dubious.
‘I can get you the water of course – but the uniform . . .’
‘I would be most grateful. I can assure you as a brother officer I am not guilty of this charge. I do undercover work and this has all been a frightful mistake, believe me.’
‘You mean stuff like Hodson used to do?’
‘That’s exactly it – just like Hodson. I go out amongst the natives, glean information, and bring it back. I was abducted and made prisoner by some mutineers and simply have to clear myself now.’ Jack injected a little persuasive lie. ‘I worked for John Nicholson, before the Delhi attack.’
It was true he had provided information helpful to the attack, but had not directly reported to Brigadier-General Nicholson, a hero of the North West Frontier and whose very name worked like magic on Sikhs, Pathans and romantic subalterns with visions of glory in their heads.
‘You knew Nicholson?’ He breathed the name.
‘We were brothers of the blade.’
The subaltern swallowed and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can for you – can’t promise of course – but I’ll do my best.’
‘I very much appreciate it.’
The subaltern, whose name Jack had learned was Simon Keenlyside, left the bungalow. Shortly afterwards an Indian bearer brought some hot water for Jack to wash in. He carried out an all-over bathe, standing one foot in the bowl alternately. The water was soon black. More was fetched, now that he had the ear of the bearer. When the subaltern returned triumphant with a full dress uniform, including boots, Jack was indeed ‘spruced’, having trimmed his beard, nails and hair. Lieutenant Crossman looked almost respectable.
‘Lieutenant Cathaway sends these with his compliments,’ said the subaltern. ‘Though he also said if you’re found guilty he’ll burn the whole lot and never trust a brother officer again.’
‘Does he know who charged me with this crime?’
‘Yes – Deighnton – which is why he’s loaning you his kit. Cathaway apologizes for the dark patch on the seat of the trousers – camel sweat. The 88th and the Rifles have formed together here to make the Camel Corps and we had a parade the other day. Very hot. Camels sweated like – well, like bloody camels. Devil to get out are camel sweat stains. Can’t do it, really. Anyway, he apologizes, and says he hopes you draw Deighnton’s cork.’
‘Ah, fortunately for me the captain makes enemies amongst the infantry wherever he goes.’
‘And Cathaway admires Nicholson as much as I do – you fought with him, you say?’
‘In the streets of Delhi . . .’ Which was not a lie, and Jack went on to tell the story, because he felt he owed it to this young man, even though he was itching to be at the pen and paper he had found in the desk in the bungalow.
The prisoners remained where they were for the next eighteen hours. Curries and coffee were supplied. Jack considered his position. The charges had been manufactured by Captain Deighnton, but Jack was at a loss to understand why. Picking a duel with a man because you have reason to believe he has insulted your good friend is one thing. That package came wrapped up in honour. But to deliberately go after that man with lies and deceit – where was the honour and satisfaction in that? Men like Deighnton had a very warped sense of honour it was true, but such men also sought glory. There was absolutely no glory in the dirty business of a trumped-up charge of desertion. Jack was completely flummoxed and decided he did not know Deighnton at all. He thought he had had him pegged but this cavalry officer was more than just a bully. It was a most perplexing puzzle.
In the cool of the following early morning, Jack was sent for. Lieutenant Keenlyside marched him to a palace boasting graceful arches and beautiful latticework windows which was now used by the local commander as his headquarters. On enquiry Jack had learned his name was Colonel Boothroyde, an infantry commander. On the way Jack saw both native and HM troops going about their business around the camp. One or two glanced curiously at him, since he stood out among them in his dress uniform. The heavy stink from the cesspits which had bothered him so much at first was wearing a little thinner as the faeces and urine dried under the sun. The odour from the rotting carcasses did not lessen, however, and he could see some men with perfumed kerchiefs pressed to their noses. In the near distance Jack could see the limp bodies of three hanged men, still on the gibbet, a flock of dark birds hovering around what remained of their heads.
Jack was taken up some marble steps and through a magnificent doorway, the pointed arches of which were decorated with inlaid chips of semi-precious stones: jasper, jade, lapis lazuli, garnet, cornelian, mother-of-pearl, malachite, and several others. The coloured mosaics stood out starkly in the white marble, chipped in many places; Jack suspected by musket balls or grapeshot. He was led around a courtyard of fountains and pools full of lilies hedged with myrtle and cornered with cypress trees to another great five-arched portico where the walls were covered with Sanskrit script which he could not read. Thence up another marble staircase and through yet another doorway supported by slender marble columns into what appeared to be the banqueting hall. Glancing up Jack could see ceiling paintings on what looked like leather and there were marble lions resting around the edges of the hall, staring at the occupants with steady glazed eyes.
In the middle of the hall, trestle tables had been erected and chairs set out. Behind the tables was a colonel, with Major O’Hay to his left and Deighnton to his right. The warrior returns, thought Jack, avoiding Deighnton’s direct stare. Jack was certain that Deighnton would have killed him rather than bringing him back for ‘justice’. He must be feeling as sick as a dog, Jack told himself, to find me here waiting for him.
Jack was marched forward, his and Keenlyside’s boots echoing in the great hall. A burly sergeant major eyed him disinterestedly. Jack knew the man was there in case he lost his temper and tried to attack any of the ‘judges’ sitting at the table.
The colonel opened proceedings by introducing himself and informing Jack that this was by the way of a preliminary inquiry.
‘. . . into the charge of desertion in the face of the enemy.’
Chilling. A charge that carried the death penalty. Jack had a passing thought about those three hanged men but dismissed it. More likely it would be a firing squad. Live practice for any untried new recruits.
‘Have you anything to say at this stage – ’ he looked down at a sheet of paper in front of him – ‘Lieutenant Kirk?’
‘My name, sir, is Lieutenant Crossman.’
Deighnton was smirking.
The colonel shook his head in a puzzled way. ‘I understand your name to be Alexander Kirk. Is that incorrect?’ The colonel looked sharply up at Keenlyside. ‘Have you brought me the wrong man, sir?’
Before the bewildered and flustered subaltern could answer, Deighnton interrupted. ‘He calls himself Jack Crossman for some devious reasons of his own.’
‘Sir,’ replied Jack, standing stiffly to attention, ‘I respectfully request that you contact my superior officer, Major Lovelace or his superior, Colonel Hawke, whose orders I was following on this mission.’
‘Where did you get that uniform, Lieutenant?’ asked Deighnton fiercely. Clearly the captain was suffering a great disappointment, finding
his quarry had managed to turn out the very image of a smart soldier. ‘The last time I saw you, you were in Pathan’s rags.’
Colonel Boothroyde interrupted him. ‘That is hardly relevant, Captain. I’m more interested in getting to the truth here, and I’m already very confused.’ He stared at Jack. ‘Lieutenant, you bear an assumed name?’
Jack sighed, having told the story so many times before.
‘I joined the army under a pseudonym in order that my father, a major in the 93rd, should not interfere in my career. Had he known I was in the army he would have wished to purchase me a lieutenancy, which I did not want him to do. In fact I rose to the rank of my own accord from a private soldier. For reasons not the concern of this inquiry, deep domestic reasons which were important at the time but are now irrelevant, I chose to remain Jack Crossman.’
‘Most irregular, but a man’s private affairs are his own, I suppose,’ replied the colonel, shuffling his papers for the third time.
The colonel was a small man, white-haired, with a kindly face. He was withered looking, possibly from too much sun, but his blue eyes shone with an understanding light. Jack felt very much relieved he was not in front of some blustering fool of a colonel whose brains were in the seat of his pants. Jack felt emboldened to offer his defence.
‘Sir, may I proffer my report? My escort has it in his case.’
Major O’Hay’s eyes widened.
‘When did you write that?’
‘Last night, sir. It’s the report I shall be handing to either Major Lovelace or Colonel Hawke. It tells of my attempt to carry out my mission, my subsequent capture by rebel sepoys and my abduction into the Himalayan mountains by those rebels. My men realized I had gone missing, when I failed to appear at the rendezvous point, and followed my trail. I managed to escape before rescue was needed and when my men finally caught up with me, we continued after the rebels and wiped them out. So far as I am aware only one man unfortunately escaped justice when he ran off.’
Jack took the report from Keenlyside and placed it carefully on the table in front of the colonel, who peered at it myopically.
Rogue Officer Page 13
