Gwalior lay nearly two hundred miles south of Bareilly and the going was through some thickly forested regions. Any clump of trees or bushes could contain rebel guerrillas, as could any group of village huts, any gully or dip in the landscape. Jack’s men had to be wary of substance and shadow alike. Twice they stumbled upon small groups of rebels and engaged in brief skirmishes which both ended in the rebels slipping away. Jack did not doubt that their own appearance – that of a dirty, weathered bunch of men – had saved them from other attacks. From a distance they did not look like British soldiers and only when they actually came face-to-face with guerrilla forces did their disguise let them down.
Jack was now full of optimism regarding the containment of the uprising. Delhi, Lucknow and Cawnpore had all been taken. Other towns previously in rebel hands had been prised away from them. At Bareilly Campbell had defeated a rebel force of 36,000, a force which had been able to put forty guns into the field. Jhansi, held by 11,000 rebels with Tantia Tope’s 20,000 reinforcements on the way, had been overrun. In the war as a whole at least half of the total 123 Native Regular and Irregular units had mutinied against British rule. They had been defeated by a seventh of their number, though it was not the fighting man at fault in the rebel army but the lack of leadership and command structure. On the contrary the rebel sepoys had fought with the same immense courage and resilience that they had showed when fighting for the British. Jack dreaded to think what would have happened if the whole native contingent of the Indian Army had risen up: the British would be but a memory, wiped clean from the landscape of this vast land.
The night before they caught up with General Rose’s army, Jack’s men camped on the banks of a fast-flowing river. They had been sleeping in the open for the most part, but occasionally built bivouacs from staves and palm leaves. This was one of those nights, when the day sky had massive columns of black cloud which climbed up to enormous heights. However, as often happens in tropical regions, the sky cleared magically as the evening swept in. The smell of threatened rain disappeared, to be replaced by softer floral fragrances overlain with whiffs of river-mud odour. Jack left his bivouac to see the night sky covered with stars like silver nails in a black door.
He breathed deeply, feeling something close to contentment, and walked to the edge of the encampment.
‘Stop there! Who’s that?’ cried a gruff voice. ‘Make yourself known, or be shot to bits on a purpose.’
‘It’s me, Wynter – Lieutenant Crossman.’
The rifle pointing at Jack’s belly was slowly removed from its present aim.
‘Just doin’ me diligent sentry duty, sir,’ sniffed Wynter. ‘No offence to the officer.’
‘None taken, Wynter.’ He thought for a bit, then added, ‘That march you did, from the Crimea. That was a very great feat.’
‘Din’t get no medals for it though, did we, sir?’
‘I don’t know, didn’t you? Anyway, Wynter, you always sell any medals the army gives to you for gin. It’s a pointless exercise. Haven’t you thought about keeping them for your grandchildren?’
‘An’t got none of those, not so’s I know. Anyways,’ the soldier acknowledged, ‘when I gets a thirst on I’d sell a grandchild for a drink, let alone a medal. You can’t trust me, sir, with anythin’ really. I’d sell the balls out of the barrel of me rifle for a woman or a bottle, even though they might save me life in the next minute. I mean, what’re we here for, if not to get the best of it?’
‘Some think a family is the best of it.’
Wynter laughed hollowly. ‘Not me. That’s for the likes of ’im over there . . .’ He nodded in the direction of square, thickset Sergeant King, who was at that moment poring over the maps he had drawn of the mountains of Chinese Tartary. He was speaking to Sajan in a low voice, the son and the father learning together. Raktambar was sitting on a log not far away from the two, looking on indulgently, just as an uncle might observe with satisfaction the education of a nephew.
It was a pleasant scene. Jack knew that the father and adopted son had become quite close after their time together in the Tibetan tower. His feelings were in a way tinged with jealousy. An instant family was something to envy. Would he and Jane have a child soon? It seemed unlikely unless it could be done by post. He had not seen Jane now for over a year, though letters had flowed between them thick and fast. Lately he had not seen a letter, of course. They were around somewhere, in India, chasing him no doubt – but there had been none at Bareilly.
‘You did very well, boy – very well.’ King’s voice came to Jack on the breeze. Jack saw the sergeant ruffle Sajan’s hair and noticed the smile on the child’s face, grateful for the praise and attention.
‘Thank you, Father.’
At one time Jack had been suspicious about the sergeant’s reasons for his strong interest in an Indian child, but that was before he had learned of King’s activities during an earlier visit to India. The sergeant had made a village girl pregnant then lost contact with her. Jack now realized King had wanted a surrogate son. Sajan was certainly not King’s real son, but the hope of finding the latter was so faint as to be almost negligible. King’s conscience had troubled him initially, and that guilt had translated itself into some idea that in Sajan he had found his lost son and heir, blood of his blood. Jack had tried to dispel this false conception without success and had finally accepted that though King might fool himself for the rest of his life, no real harm could come of it. Sajan was an orphan and useful to the group in certain given circumstances. If Jack had ever felt any twinge of guilt himself at using the boy, it was quickly gone: there were British drummer boys of Sajan’s age who had marched into the thick of battles for the sake of usefulness.
Jack needed to go to the toilet, so he now left the camp for a clump of trees nearby. Completely out of step with the rest of British soldiery in India, Jack was often constipated. He was dreadfully embarrassed by this affliction and had once said unthinkingly to Gwilliams that he would have given his right hand to be rid of it, which allowed Gwilliams a guffaw of amusement and to point out that he had given his left hand and got bugger all in return for it.
Always wary of snakes, which seemed to come out at night with the bats and other nocturnal creatures, Jack trod carefully to find some privacy amongst the trees. He could have gone out in the open, but coupled with his bowels problem was another affliction – his class. An ordinary soldier might drop his pants where he pleased, but a lieutenant from an aristocratic family might not. Jack would rather be bitten by a deadly cobra than show his backside to the troops. How could he hold up his head if caught in such a position? It would have been impossible for him. An officer who leads from the front must never show his rear without it being covered by cloth.
Jack found a dark spot and felt safe from prying eyes. He went about his business. Squatting there, straining for a few moments, he suddenly became aware that the crickets and other jungle noises had ceased. Was that because of his presence? He did not think so. Crickets did not normally bother about animals of any kind, even humans, unless they were within inches. Then, as he listened hard in the deep silence, he heard the sound of breathing coming from close by. Still squatting, with his trousers round his ankles, he reached carefully for the Tranter revolver in his waistband.
The regular breathing made Jack think that whoever it was, was asleep under a bush. He peered hard, searching for a shape amongst the bushes. How humiliating – and dangerous – to be caught in such a position at such a time! He could hear no stirring: just the slow in-and-out motion of breath. At that moment, as if in order to assist him in his search, the moon came out from behind a cloud. Now Jack was able to look around the glade he was occupying, to find the owner of that breath.
The first thing he saw were the eyes. They stared at him from about ten yards away: gold-flecked almond-shaped eyes. Unblinking. A beam of moonlight had caught them full on and they gazed at Jack with an unvarying languid intensity, almost curious in their aspect: the
eyes of one who has woken from a long sleep and sees a stranger squatting before him, and is possibly thinking, ‘Oh, hello – what are you up to?’
From the eyes Jack travelled down and gradually, gradually made out the rest of the shape. It was a huge, lolling beast that had flopped to the ground for a rest or sleep. As Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the barred moonlit forest he could see the stripes like black bent bars on the lighter coat. An ear flicked. A tail swished.
Tiger.
Having spent all this time in India, he had previously congratulated himself on never really encountering a tiger. There had been that hunt with the rajah, but then he had been surrounded by muskets, blasting away at every twitch of grass or leaf, the only danger being from an over-eager matchlock man swinging his weapon in the wrong direction. Now here he was, a fully grown feline monster just yards away, regarding him with a schoolmaster’s solemn interest. His revolver felt like a peashooter in his hand.
What could stop this ton of muscle and bone if it decided to come at him? Only a bloody field gun, he thought to himself, his heart drumming rapidly. Only a regiment of heavy-bore sharpshooters. Only a forest of bayonets and sabres with no inch to spare between their points.
For a long time the pair just remained where they were, hardly a movement coming from either of them. Jack tried looking away, thinking that his stare might be upsetting the beast, but when he looked back again yellow eyes were holding him in a steady gaze. Cramps began to set in his legs. He was not as used to squatting as the Indians, who did it all the time, whether they were at toilet or not. Pretty soon his calves knotted and he wanted to scream out in pain. Then his right foot and toes followed suit, bringing tears to his eyes. He wanted to yell, jump and run about, to rid himself of the bunched, locked muscles that twisted into ropes of agony. But any such move on his part he was sure would bring the tiger leaping forward, teeth bared, ready to rip open his belly.
How do I get myself into these situations? thought Jack, miserably. All I wanted was to perform my rightful ablutions in peace. Is that too much to ask? Have I offended God so much that He has decided not only to end my life, but to do it in such a fashion as will leave men sniggering at the manner of it? Jack could not bear the thought of being found mangled, fettered in the act of running by his own pants, caught as it were, in flagrante delicto. How desperately humiliating. Could one’s family history survive such a death? Jack imagined his descendants attempting to suppress the story, yet the sordid tale living on for ever as a bar-room joke.
The cramps finally subsided, but Jack was ringing with perspiration, flies sticking to his skin.
He started to get slowly to his feet, but at the movement the tiger suddenly sat up: a big cat preparing to rise. Its eyes had narrowed to slits. Huge paws flattened on the hard-packed earth.
Jack froze, the fear coursing through his body. The obvious happened and his constipation was cured at a stroke.
In a moment the glade was filled with a horrible stench.
The tiger stared at him. Then after a few moments it got to its feet and padded away, obviously disgusted by the smell. Jack remained squatting, the sweat dripping from him. He had come so close to an inglorious, ignominious death it was not true. He began to think that perhaps he should fling himself at death in the very next battle, to ensure that his descendants would have nothing to be ashamed about.
On his way back into camp he decided to say nothing to anyone about the incident. Gwilliams looked at him curiously as he washed his hands in stream water.
‘You all right, lootenant?’
‘I’m fine,’ Jack replied, not looking at the corporal. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You look kinda pale – you ain’t sick’ning?’
‘It’s the firelight,’ muttered Jack. ‘It throws out all sorts of . . . of light. I’m perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Have a good one in there, then?’ Gwilliams nodded towards the forest.
‘Corporal, I do not discuss my ablutions with anyone, let alone my troops.’
‘Just askin’.’
‘Your concern in this area is not appreciated.’
‘Jeez!’
Sergeant Farrier King came into the firelight.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Gwilliams shrugged. ‘I was just enquiring after the lootenant’s crap. You know he gets problems.’ A grave nod followed.
‘Oh? Have you still a difficulty, sir?’ asked King politely. ‘Can’t be easy one-handed either. I myself . . .’
Jack hissed, ‘I’m not interested in your condition, Sergeant – and I don’t wish to discuss my own. I wish to be left in peace, if you please. Can a human being not be entitled to carry out his private acts without half the world wanting to know the details? Good God, there are so few secrets amongst us. Please leave me with some degree of dignity.’
‘Keep it down over there,’ growled the voice of Wynter out of the darkness. ‘The officer’s out there in the woods tryin’ to have a shit. You know what he’s like – he needs to concentrate, bein’ as his gut is usually stuffed up tighter than a turkey at Christmas. He gets crabby if he don’t make a good showing of it.’
Jack gave up and went to bed.
The group caught up with General Rose’s column as it made a forced march south towards Gwalior. Jack learned that Tantia Tope had escaped his previous battle with Rose and had regrouped. With him were two strong allies, Rao Sahib and the Rani of Jhansi.
Despite the fact that she was their enemy, the Rani had captured the admiration of many a British officer, Jack included. He could not but help compare her with Boadicea, the British warrior queen. In fact their general careers had followed similar paths. Both had lost their ruler husbands and had been robbed of their rightful inheritance by occupying armies. They both rose up in defence of their claims, to become serious threats to those armies. The Rani, whose name was Manikarnika, began to recruit an army even before the uprising, which included women like herself. She had already defeated two neighbouring rajas – of Datia and Orchha – who had invaded Jhansi on the back of the sepoy rebellion.
Jack had heard that the thirty-year-old Rani dressed like an Indian fighting man and wore a turban. Her horsemanship was superb. There were those who said she had lovely eyes and a beautiful figure, but others remarked that her face was pockmarked with the ravages of smallpox. Whatever her physical appearance she fought with a ferocity unmatched by many men and was a good tactician. When the revolt had broken out Jhansi had become a centre of the rebellion. A group of British officers had taken refuge in its fort and were promised safe passage to leave, only to be slaughtered by waiting rebels. Manikarnika was held by the British to be responsible for this massacre and this left her no choice but to turn her energies to ridding India of the ‘Honourable’ Company.
Now here was the honourable Jack Crossman, going to war against women. He wondered if he could kill a female in hand-to-hand combat. He supposed he would have to, but the thought made him sick to his stomach. Battling with a fanatical Ghazi warrior in the dust was one thing, but to have to do the same to a female? Could he really plunge a blade into one of the Rani’s girls, even if she was trying to kill him? Could he really shoot out a pair of liquid brown eyes set in the face of a beautiful woman? He felt nothing but disgust with this war now, with all its unforgivable atrocities.
‘Dollar for those thoughts, Jack?’
Jack Crossman whirled round at the sound of this voice and he felt nothing but delight on seeing his old friend Rupert Jarrard.
‘Rupert! You devil. Where have you been? I heard you were here in India.’
They shook hands warmly, smiling into each other’s faces.
Jarrard was a tall, handsome, evenly sized man, neither too lean nor too heavy. He was one of those men who look good in any sort of clothing, be it smart or casual wear. In a uniform he would have caused women to swoon away, but as he often told Jack, he would be sooner dead than join the military. He liked danger,
but he liked it on his own terms. Like his British counterpart, William Russell, he was a war correspondent. His paper was the New York Banner and he and Jack had become fast friends when both realized the other was enthusiastic about new machines. New inventions quickened their pulses.
Jack led his friend to a space away from the hubbub of the Bombay Native Infantry, where he had been having a peaceful pipe. If he could not escape noise he preferred the chatter of Hindi and Urdu to that of his native tongue. It appeared to be less intrusive on his thoughts, since he understood it less well.
‘Well, Rupert? Still carrying that Colt?’
Jarrard smiled. ‘You bet.’ He patted his jacket just in front of his left armpit. ‘Had to use it once or twice over here, too. How are you faring, Jack? Hand giving you any trouble?’
Jack waved his stump. ‘No, not really. I had a couple of false hands – one of them mechanical. You should have seen it, Rupert. I could crush rocks with it.’ He sighed, flapping the empty cuff of his left sleeve. ‘But it’s gone. Ripped off in a battle – there’s been so many I’ve forgotten which. Had a nice wooden one as well – the one I hit Hadrow with – but that’s gone too.’ He paused, realizing he had not answered Jarrard’s main question. ‘Otherwise, I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine – you’re ragged and worn out. Been through the wringer lately, eh?’
Jack smiled wryly. ‘One way or another.’ He looked down at himself, past his black beard to the filthy cottons. When he had last looked in a mirror his face had been tanned the colour of his boots and his skin had looked dried and lined. He had lost weight too, so that his cotton shirt hung on him like a limp rag. ‘I wouldn’t get into White’s, that’s for certain,’ he said, speaking of the London gentlemen’s club. ‘They’d throw me out with the rubbish, I’m sure.’
‘Who the hell is Hadrow?’ Rupert asked, lighting up one of his cheroots.
‘Oh, a chap I had some personal business with.’
‘He’s not the fellah who jilted Jane?’
Rogue Officer Page 15
